


Bells Pond

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_j2_bigbang, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after his run-in with Famine, Dean breaks down and prays for help. It's not God who answers. Michael appears before him and instantly changes everything Dean thought he knew about the Apocalypse.</p><p>A few days later, Sam wakes up alone in Bells Pond, Nebraska -- a far cry from the drab motel room in Tennessee where he fell asleep. Without Dean, Sam explores his desolate surroundings and discovers that the town lies in ruins thanks to a demonic event. It becomes clear that Sam's not as alone as he thought, nor can he escape from his strange prison. He fights against the power holding him there, afraid every day that Lucifer will hunt him down and force him to say yes. The Apocalypse continues to rage outside of his isolated world and Sam fears for his brother's life. As time drags on, and as Lucifer takes Sam to ever more seductive places in his dreams, Sam realizes that the people of Bells Pond may provide the key to everything he's been searching for but never thought he'd find. And waiting in the future is an unforeseen miracle, if Sam can last that long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bells Pond

**bells pond.**

 **the beginning; part one.**

>  _You are never going to forgive me._

  
There's only room for one thought in Dean's mind. Sam. The rest of his consciousness is impatiently shoved aside by a pure, blinding force. Michael is hardly gentle; he doesn't need to be. No brush of wings, no soothing pressure. Permission is barely given before the archangel drives himself into Dean's being for the first time.

On March 28th, 2010, Dean Winchester says yes.

  


>  _They didn't invent the concept of destiny. Why humans shake their fists at the sky and curse fate, he isn't sure. It's such a human idea. Reassuring, Michael imagines, to think one's not in control. It must make the tragedies easier to bear if the blame can be laid at someone else's feet._
> 
>  _He believes that there are problems and there are solutions. Every so often, circumstances converge to make it so that certain people are capable of bringing about those solutions. That's not destiny; it's logic. If a man can, he should. Regrettably, logic and humanity have rarely gone hand in hand throughout the ages and, if Michael should ever happen to forget that, he needs only consult Dean Winchester._
> 
>  _Save for one, Michael's brothers and sisters will never understand Dean and so their methods are heavy-handed and antiquated. Completely wrong for a man like Dean. But Michael has been tied to Dean since the man was born, and nothing escapes him. That's why he knew exactly what to say to turn Dean in the right direction._
> 
>  _Free will means many things. Before he returned to Michael and said yes, Dean believed he could save the world by refusing to do what was asked of him—choosing free will. For Michael, free will meant that Dean needed to find his own way to the truth._
> 
>  _The truth being that there is only one way out of this mess. It really is a mess. The alignment of so many events, muddled with motives both righteous and sinister, to form one large...disaster. One fight, with one solution that was written into Dean's blood long before he was conceived. Dean is beginning to see that, but there's no reassurance Michael can give him that the years ahead will be easy._
> 
>  _As much as the opposite is true, Michael is at Dean's mercy. And if he does not keep his bargain with Dean, this disaster will consume the world._

  


There's a place on the edge of consciousness, full of possibility. A time when dreams slip away to be forgotten in the dark recesses of the mind, and sensation returns to the body. Sam struggles through his sleep-fog and bleariness, no idea what he's going to see when he opens his eyes. Instinctively, he feels something has changed.

What he sees isn't what he expects and he's fully awake in an instant. He's definitely not his motel room, though physically, Sam feels exactly the same as when he fell asleep. His t-shirt smells like the rubbing alcohol he used last night to treat the cuts on his upper arm, his boxers are the same tattered gray ones he crawled into bed wearing. But the walls are white, satin finished, instead of the color of rotting olives like the motel room he'd seen before closing his eyes. There are no curtains on the windows unlike the thick, stained drapes that blocked out the buzzing halogen streetlights by the motel's curb.

Sam looks around. Dean is missing from this strange picture; his absence leaves a roaring black hole at Sam's side. Suddenly, Sam can't breathe.

Two weeks have passed since Sam's second blood-detox in Bobby's panic room. The hallucinations should be long gone but Sam's senses tell him that this is no trick of the mind.

Behind a wall, Sam hears a heating unit kick on and he throws the covers off. He's silent as he climbs out of the bed and creeps barefooted to the bedroom door. He picks up nothing but the sound of the heater as warm air blows across his ankles from the vent. No movement or sounds to suggest there's anyone else in the—well, Sam guesses it's a house—but he's careful nonetheless, trampling the urge to yell for Dean.

There's a window less than a yard to Sam's left; nothing telling outside to reveal where he is. Yellowed grass, the shade of a harsh winter, under a gray sky; bare trees waiting for the warmth to sprout new leaves. Sam could be anywhere.

This isn't some strange dream; Sam senses the remnants of power like fingerprints on his skin. Something put him here, severed from Dean. The list of supernatural beings capable of transporting Sam is a short one and none of the names on it make him feel any better. A scan of the bedroom yields no weapons. The only usable thing is a lamp next to the bed. He quickly unplugs it and removes the shade. It's cumbersome, a clunky metal base with sharp edges.

The door squeaks and swings away when Sam pushes. No pictures on the walls, no carpet under his feet. Only scratched hardwood pointing Sam away from the bedroom, muted light filling the hallway from both ends.

Sam clears the house in five minutes. The bedroom he woke up in, a miscellaneous room filled with tattered boxes off the hallway, one bathroom, and a kitchen with a table that only has three chairs. An empty basement that smells like cold, wet stone, clogging his sinuses. He's completely alone, not even a whisper or a shiver of another presence.

He ends up in the living room where mismatched furniture is pushed up against the walls under the dusty windows. Three bags have been set conspicuously on the couch, two over-stuffed duffels and a messenger bag. Sam only needs a second to recognize that they're his.

"Dean!"

His yell rattles through the house and echoes back. After that it's unnaturally quiet. There's no trace of Dean's bags anywhere in the room. Setting the lamp down, Sam checks through everything for his cell phone, but comes up empty-handed. Fear gnaws through the pit of Sam's stomach when he sees that everything he owns is packed in the duffel bags: his clothes, weapons that hadn't been stashed in the Impala's trunk, his computer and books.

A cold drafts slides under the front door, slithers up Sam's bare calf. If he has to confront something, he's not going to do it in his boxers. Hastily slipping into jeans, shoes, and another shirt, Sam rechecks the house, taking deep breaths every other step to keep the hysteria at bay. He finds no phone and no television. Nothing to give him a clue of where he is or what he's doing there.

The backdoor off the kitchen isn't locked; it clatters against the door frame when Sam steps into the early morning. The noise sends half a dozen small, brown birds scattering up into the sky from a leafless shrub. Sam's quick scan around the single-story house gives him nothing out of the ordinary. The only other structure is a makeshift garage, four steel rods and a low metallic roof, covering a dent-riddled and dusty Ford pickup. Brick red with Nebraska plates. **EYN 866.**

"Nebraska?" Considering he clearly remembers passing out last night in a motel room in Tennessee while trying to block the sounds of Dean cleaning up—bloody paper towels and empty beer bottles filling the motel's little plastic trash can—Nebraska is a big surprise.

The truck is unlocked, but Sam's luck stops there. No registration papers in the glove compartment, and no keys. Alarm bells go off in every part of Sam's head, buzzing between his ears when he walks back into the house.

"Dean!" He yells again, deeper and more strained. In the quiet that follows, Sam hears his heart beating, blood pulsing from his ears to his stomach.

He stalks through the house, no longer bothering to be stealthy. Sam rips open drawers and closets, pushes furniture around to see if there are clues scratched into the wood floors. The light switches work, so at least there's electricity. He checks the attic and finds nothing, even less in the basement. Back in the kitchen, he calls for Dean a third time and when that doesn't get him anywhere, he switches tactics.

"Castiel!" Hoping against hope he'll hear wings, feel the air shift before Castiel's suddenly behind him.

There's not so much as a sigh or flutter, just the eerie quiet that's dogged his footsteps all morning. Sam Winchester is utterly alone.

The black-on-white numbers on the stove flip past one o'clock when Sam's finished turning the house inside out and uncovering a few surprises. In the kitchen, the whitewashed pantry is filled with food and supplies—everything basic and generic—and the fridge was stocked as if someone made a run to the grocery store. Pots and pans stacked in the cupboards, ugly dishes and mismatched glasses. Considering it doesn't look like anyone's lived in the house for a decade, Sam's confused by the small signs of life.

He moves sluggishly, fighting the effects of his earlier adrenaline high. It had spiked with every step into this bizarre place, now leaking out of his body to leave a staggering void behind his temples. Stumbling towards the couch, he pushes his bags onto the floor and sits. The cushions dip and sag under his weight, old dust flung into the dull sunlight.

Sam thinks about Dean. He's swamped by possibilities: Dean has no idea where Sam is, waking up in an empty motel room without him; he's wandering around in some other backwater thousands of miles away, as much a victim as Sam is; Dean is dead.

The last possibility doesn't scare him as much as it should. With the way Sam and Dean are fought over like scraps of meat, no one's going to let a Winchester stay dead for long. They're useless unless they're alive for everyone and their demonic second-cousins to torment.

Only one risk really guts him. That Dean might think Sam got fed up and left, sick of the apocalypse and the arguments of free will versus fate. If Sam's stuff is here, there's no way anything's left for Dean to find in the motel room. Whatever did this to him may have made it look like Sam got up in the middle of the night, arranging false evidence to drive Dean further into Michael's grasp. If Dean were to think Sam abandoned him, there's no telling what he'd do. No telling what Sam would do in the same situation.

Sam and Dean's weaknesses are well known from the Heavenly heights to the caverns of Hell. Take one brother out of the equation and it's a whole new game. It may not be about manipulating Dean, but getting Sam away from his brother in order to—in order to what?

Not knowing where he is, what put him here, leaves Sam in the dark. No motives, nothing to bargain with. Think. Sam has to think.

>  _If something put you here, there's a way to get out._

  
It sounds like Dean's voice, steady and leading. There's no getting to the _why_ until Sam figures out the _what_. Hours pass, Sam getting up and pacing in the confines of the living room when he can't sit anymore. His stomach starts growling mid-afternoon, and Sam digs through one of his duffel bags until he finds a couple granola bars he'd stashed weeks ago when he and Dean needed to clear out of a town. No way he trusts the food in the kitchen, innocuous labels hiding some kind of poison or drug, but he takes a chance on water from the faucet, cupping his hands and letting the cold flow over them. He looks, sniffs, and finally tastes, drinking deep when he can't find anything wrong.

Quickly now, the sun's being pulled down to meet the horizon, and Sam's weary. Tired of his mind spinning in a thousand different directions, over every interaction and conversation he and Dean have had with angels and demons alike since Lilith's blood and Sam's powers set Lucifer free.

When Sam starts to drift off, Dean's voice pipes up again in his head.

>  _Protect yourself. You never know what's out there._

  
He scoffs, no one to hear him argue. _Christ, Dean. I'm not stupid._

Less than a day without Dean and he's hearing orders and reminders in his head. But the voice is right; Sam's a sitting duck even if he doesn't know what he needs protecting from. He takes stock of what he has. He may not have salt, but he has a gun and a single box of ammo, plus his Bowie knife and his journal.

He'll have to rely on locks, sigils, and drawings. Sam uses the knife to etch a Devil's Trap into the floor at the front door, the design carved in his memory. Sweating, Sam ends up with a trap that spans from the door jamb to the coat closet. With the knife cleaned of splinters, Sam cuts shallowly into his forearm, squeezing out enough blood to throw up a few angelic sigils. It'll have to be enough.

Sam hasn't heard a single noise from outside all day, no cars on the dirt road that runs to the horizon in either direction. In the near-dark, Sam stands on his doorstep looking for any signs of civilization. Two black power lines stretch from one corner of the house to a tall pole along the road then disappear into the dark. The sky turns inky black while he stands, perfect for picking out stars and constellations, but those are the only lights Sam sees. To the East and West, there's nothing. Loneliness, what ought to be the least of Sam's problems, creeps back up from the road no one drives on, into the house nobody lives in.

Sam slams the door on his way back inside.

He doesn't dream, but when Sam wakes up he wastes a moment imagining that he's in Tennessee. He'll open his eyes, stretch and turn over to see Dean asleep in the second bed with the sheets bunched up beneath his armpits. Sam gives stretching a shot but his limbs are kinked and sore from falling asleep on the old couch. So much for the fantasy. His watch says it's 8:21 in the morning, but Sam doubts that whatever dumped him here—if here really is Nebraska—bothered to change the time from Eastern to Central.

The last granola bar appeases his rumbling stomach. The only plan Sam has is getting out of the house, picking a direction and seeing where the dirt road leads. Redressed and sparing a few minutes to clean himself up, Sam packs his smallest bag. Gun, knife, and his journal. Water poured into an old plastic thermos he rinsed out. No food, though the milk in the fridge and the bread in the cupboard are tempting.

There aren't as many clouds today, air crisper without such a heavy barrier between the earth and sky. Beyond the weathered fence that circles the yard, the view is the same in every direction. Brown fields bordered by small groups of trees. The only noticeable feature is a water tower to the southwest. Standing above the treeline, the tower appears to be old, metal rusted dark where the paint's been worn away. There is something painted on the side—words, possibly a name—but it's hard to make out. For no real reason, Sam heads in that direction.

He's bound to find something—or someone—even if it's the thing that stashed him here. Sam's shadow gets shorter, the sun rising behind him, and the tower grows larger until Sam can read the letters.

>  **BELLS POND**

  
He has no memory of such a place; no subconscious significance.

The electrical lines Sam's been following from the house lead him further towards the tower and, about two miles from where he started, Sam comes upon another house. Two stories of dark, weathered siding and dirty white trim. Another deserted house without a soul, just like Sam's. Power lines run to the house from spindly pine poles and all Sam thinks about is finding a phone. The ground floor windows are covered with curtains, none of the panes broken. With the sun where it is, Sam can't see inside. He circles the house, tramples the long grass overtaking the yard. Sam takes two quick steps up onto the porch, warped boards groaning under his feet. He's just bending to peer through the cloudy, stained glass panel in the front door when he hears the ratchet and click of a lock being turned.

Too shocked to react at first, he freezes. Limbs stuck in cement, lungs reluctant to take a breath. Sam's hand hovers over the doorknob as it starts to turn, and he jumps back so quickly he stumbles, hitting his back on the porch rail.

"Oh—oh sorry! Are you okay?"

The voice is soft, sweet, and disturbingly out of place. The front door is ajar, an indistinct face peeking out.

"I didn't mean to startle you, sorry." The apology is timid. Dark eyes watch Sam carefully, never moving beyond the relative safety of the doorframe. He sees nothing beyond, only shadow, and his hand settles over the gun tucked in the back of his jeans.

"I—" Sam stumbles through the unexpected excuse. "I didn't know anyone was in there," he says. He's alert for anything more out of the ordinary than suddenly making house calls to strangers in what he thought was a forsaken stretch of Nebraska prairie.

"I don't recognize you." The door creaks wider. The voice gains strength and Sam sees it's a young woman, her blunt fingernails digging into the heavy oak door. "Are you new?"

"New to what?"

"You're really new if you're asking me that." She takes a step away from the protection of her foyer, revealing faded jeans and bare feet. "Sorry, I've just never met someone first, you know?"

Sam senses her nervousness, but the only surprise is from his end of the conversation. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, I thought I was alone here."

"I thought so too, at first." The woman smiles, full cheeks and laugh lines, unmindful of the manner in which Sam is crowded against the railing in a defensive stance. "If you just got here..." There's a catch in her voice. "Sorry, I don't know what to ask first, this is so weird."

This woman's definition of weird clearly clashes with Sam's. He's come up with dozens of new questions in the last few minutes but he holds them back. She's small and non-threatening, even her voice doesn't get a reaction from Sam's gut. Sam is no stranger to wolves wearing sheepskin and a smile, and hers is a perfect disguise. She could easily be a part of what brought him here, but he craves information like a starving man does dinner.

"Things weren't exactly great when I left—well, when I was taken, I suppose." She's rambling over Sam's thoughts. "I guess things haven't gotten better if you're here."

"Where's here?" Sam interrupts, stepping forward.

"The middle of nowhere." She nods out towards the road, the long stretch of nothing Sam came from. "Actually, I'm pretty sure it's Nebraska."

"How do you know?"

"I found a state map in the desk. You know, an old one from, like, the seventies? I'd seen the name painted on that water tower—you've seen that right, if you walked here?" She doesn't pause for Sam's nod. "There was a dot labeled Bells Pond on the map, and it was circled so that sort of made sense."

She notices how little sense it seems to make to Sam, looking him over from head to toe. "Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should come in and sit down."

>  _Bad idea, Sammy. I know she's cute, but that doesn't mean you can trust her, believe me._

  
Sam tells his Dean-voice to stow it, then follows her through the front door. He catches the scene of freshly baked bread, warm and inviting, and despite all the curtains he'd glimpsed, the rooms are bright thanks to a bizarre mix of lamps.

"Oh," she adds. "My name's Riley, by the way."

"Sam." It's odd to shake her hand, but Sam does it anyway. Riley has the kind of face Sam would immediately forget if it weren't the only one he's seen in days. Brown eyes, dark hair with a few highlights for the sun to catch. She's tall, nearly coming up to Sam's chin, with square shoulders and long legs. When the door closes behind them, Sam feels as if he's in a different world. There's nothing remarkable about the house other than the aromas making Sam's mouth water. Second-hand furniture, nothing in the way of personal photographs or knick knacks. It feels false and unnatural, lacking any sort of personal attention. An anonymity Sam's used to, as if the house belongs to no one.

Riley leads him to a sparsely furnished living room and sits on a black, curved-back chair, long scrapes on the floor under its legs. Sam eyes the mauve couch across from her, sitting when she stares expectantly.

"So?" He stares right back and she sighs, winding her fingers through dark curls like an eager student. "What was it like before you got here? I mean, out there, is the world any different?"

Sam jumps out of the horror movie and into a science-fiction brain buster. Neither are genres he enjoys. "I'm not sure what you're asking—"

"Unless I'm crazy, I've been here for over a year." The way she says it has Sam mentally dropping the 'unless.' "And I got the feeling that something bad was going to happen, but no one here knows anything."

Something bad did happen, Sam silently acknowledges. By his own hand, the world was turned upside down, and if Riley's just a regular person trapped in the same web as Sam, she doesn't need to know. "Look, I'm sorry but I don't know anything. I had a bad feeling, too." Not quite a lie, Sam knows well and good what sort of horrors were being inflicted on the world. "But I guess I don't remember. Maybe something happened to me."

Riley latches onto that. "Right, I know something happened to all of us, that's why we're here."

"What happened to you?" Sam rushes to ask and keep the questions away from himself; he's too practiced at playing the sympathetic listener. "How did you get here?"

Riley shrugs. "I don't know. I just, sort of, woke up." That's eerily familiar. Riley's voice dips back into timidity as she fidgets absentmindedly. "Everything before that is a little blurry, but I know I was scared of something, I remember that much. When I opened my eyes and saw this house, I thought I was dead. Pretty messed up if this is heaven, huh?"

Sam reins in his sympathy; Riley remains too much of an unknown. "I wouldn't know." She shrugs as if his response doesn't matter. "You must have tried to get out of here, right? If you've been here for so long, didn't you want to leave?"

"Oh." Riley looks away. "I walked a lot, but there's not much around. I was too scared to go too far in case this house wasn't here when I got back. But it's weird, now that you mention it. When I walked, I'd always come to a place where I just couldn't keep going."

"And you mentioned others," Sam continues to press. "Have any of them managed to leave, or told you what you're doing here? Are they stuck, too?"

"I guess so, Gus has never mentioned anyone leaving."

Sam's eyes snap up. "Who's Gus?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think he's been here longer than anyone else. That's the gist I got," she says. "I don't know if he knows what's going on, but he doesn't say much. I mean, he talks, but it's always super casual. He mostly comes around from time to time, and he told me that I could survive here, so I was grateful—"

"What do you mean, survive?"

"Like, food and stuff. I noticed there was food in the house, but I didn't eat it until Gus told me I could." She scratches at the worn denim covering her knees. "It's not like Persephone eating a pomegranate seed, Sam. And I never seem to run out of food..." Riley's voice drops off, the idea clearly not sitting comfortably with her. "I stopped trying to leave when I started waking up less scared every day. I figured, with what little I remember, I'm better off here than I was out there."

Sam sees how obvious it is. Riley's house may lack personal touches, but it's lived in. The smells, the arrangement of the furniture, and the careful resignation in her voice. It terrifies Sam. Suddenly wary, he stands up and feels the weight of the Smith & Wesson along his spine.

"Where can I find Gus?"

"I don't know where he lives." Riley doesn't move, looking up and up at Sam. "He could be anywhere, but he shows up every once in a while. He's a good guy."

"I bet he is." A mysterious man coming and going as he pleases? That has Sam's attention. "Listen, thanks for talking to me. I have some things I need to check out."

"Oh, okay." Her smile collapses. "Are you sure? I could make us something to eat."

"No—no thanks," Sam says, though his stomach urges him to stay for a sandwich or, hell, anything at this point. "I really need to get moving."

She trails Sam to the front door. "Come back anytime, Sam." Her voice is quieter, as if anything louder will make Sam disappear. "There's not—well, it gets lonely."

"I'll try," he answers. It's the only offer he can make. "I guess it was nice to meet you."

The distraction of her eyes stays with him as he steps off the porch and back onto the road. Sam can't look back. If he does, the house and Riley may be gone, conjured by his imagination so he'd have someone to talk to. Or, the thing keeping him here will swallow the house back up as if it were never there.

He retraces his steps along the gravel road, kicking up dust with the toes of his shoes and lingering at the turn-offs guarded by rickety gates. Sam lays it all in his memory, creating a map in his head in case this is an illusion. If he goes out tomorrow and finds a different labyrinth of dirt paths cut into the grass, it'll be one more clue.

Hours later, Sam looks up from the road at 'his' house, the type he's seen a hundred times over the years. Unobtrusive and banal, its mundane features blend in to the point where they disappear.

>  _At least it's still there, Sammy._

  
As much as Dean would balk at the notion of a home base, Sam supposes his brother wouldn't be adverse to shelter if he were here. It could be worse, and Sam breathes a little easier when he's back inside, surrounded by the drab and dreariness that's starting to become familiar.

Besides his journal and weapons, one tool Sam hasn't lost is his mind. Swiping the layer of dust off the kitchen table, he pulls the journal from his bag and flips to the first blank page. On it goes everything he's learned or guessed, which admittedly isn't much, but research is Sam's gig.

>  **BELLS POND?  
>  Most likely Nebraska. Empty. Residents gone. Dead? No graves/bodies on road. Town cleared by supernatural event?**

  
Sam will never forget Cold Oak. The shock of waking up in such a haunted place, eeriness sinking beneath his skin, stayed with him. Bells Pond is intrinsically different; Sam can't avoid the fact that something had to have driven people from their homes, but all day, Bells Pond felt dead—not even spirits lingered amongst the remains.

>  **Demons? - Horsemen? - Would have to be powerful enough.  
>  Angels? - Zachariah - out of the way to get to Dean?  
> WHAT'S THE MOTIVE?**

  
Hundreds of creatures would line up to get their grubby paws on the Winchesters, angels and demons having the most obvious hard-ons for them. Sam pictures all of them lined up like an amusement park queue, twisting and turning as far as the eye can see.

Another name pops into the mix. Gabriel, that son of a bitch. A trick like this is right up that angelic bastard's alley: tossing Sam somewhere and watching him spin his wheels. Gabriel's got nothing if not an agenda, and if the idea is to get Dean on his own for some extra-strength coercion, well, then Sam's fucked. He adds Gabriel's name in a messy scrawl underneath MOTIVE, and revisits his time with Riley.

>  **"Gus" - Could be anyone - Appears/disappears - Confirmed food was OK, some sort of control?  
>  "Riley" - Appeared one year ago, unable to leave. How is she getting supplies? Where did she come from?  
> Others? How many?**

  
What he has amounts to drops of rain in a desert—not nearly enough to satisfy. He needs Dean as a second set of eyes to point out things he's missed. History had proven that they were better hunters together than they were apart.

>  _We made a pretty good team._

  
Sam sketches a quick map on the next page, penciling in the roads leading from here to Riley's house as well as the off-shoots in between. Traces them with his pointer finger to make sure he's recopied them exactly the way his feet walked them.

Sam's not gifted with any sudden epiphanies once everything's down on paper. Worse, his stomach start to protest the lack of nutrition, his belly tightening and groaning. A full fridge and cupboards make the hunger harder to bear; his gut doesn't care where the food comes from, just that it's there. Riley could have lied hoping Sam would take the bait and eat, but the time's come when Sam doesn't have a choice. He's not going to last much longer. The least he can do is take an inventory.

That turns out to be a horrible plan. The sight of a dozen white eggs lined up in the fridge starts his stomach rumbling all over again. Below is a bottle of orange juice—pulpy, the way Sam likes it. It's torture. Potatoes and onions are stuffed in crates under the sink. A loaf of whole-grain bread with a perfectly wrapped twist-tie sitting next to jars of chunky peanut butter and strawberry jelly. The package of cookies in the cupboard finally breaks Sam—chocolate chip and pecan in plastic wrapping. His hands reach out involuntarily.

>  _Not a good idea, Sammy._

  
Craving takes the wheel and Sam can't help himself. The first cookie crumbles in his mouth, inhaled and swallowed in less than a breath. The second and third disappear just as quickly. After he's eaten half the package, mortification kicks in. He stops but nothing feels off, and Sam's belly is sending the impulse for more, more, more! Too hungry to stop, he finishes off the package, falling into a food daze and praying nothing's been tampered with.

"Totally worth it," Sam mumbles to the empty package. The voice in his head is silent, appeased by the calories.

As the day winds to dusk, the house turns cold. Making sure his protections and precautions remain in place, Sam grabs a blanket from the bedroom and settles on the couch with his journal in hand. That's where he falls asleep, cruel dreams waiting in his subconscious to taunt him with everything he's unable to get back to.

"Dammit."

The Ford's engine is mocking Sam. Fans, belts, and blades all jumbled together in a frustrating, greasy puzzle. Doesn't look like anyone's been under the hood in years. At least he didn't have to try hotwiring the truck; the keys were hiding in one of the kitchen drawers with other random pieces of junk. But keys don't do Sam any good when the engine's totally shot. Probably out of gas, too.

Sam leans forward on his elbows, body soaking up the feel of the cool metal. He tries to recall all those car lessons Dean taught him—some vivid, others obscured by old grief and apprehension—back when Dean thought he was going to die...

He shakes off the thought. Dean's not here and Sam needs to fix this engine or he'll be stuck walking.

"A tip on where to start would be nice," Sam grumbles, but the Dean-in-his-head either can't hear or is too busy laughing.

He gives up when his knuckles and wrists are sore, watch reading a quarter past two. The metal storage locker under the garage's canopy contains little: a few bottles of motor oil with half the labels peeling off; miscellaneous tools Sam can't identify; old wires and a spare car battery. That, at least, may come in handy.

No use wasting a clear afternoon. It would have been nice to have the truck running, but Sam packs his bag anyway, grabs crackers from the pantry—they don't look lethal—and sets off on the road away from the water tower. There's even less in this direction than there was on the way to Riley's house. The power lines he's been following come to an abrupt halt almost half a mile from Sam's place. The wires run to one last pole and then there's nothing.

Sam keeps walking.

A few miles on, he can't go any further.

It's not that he's tired; he could walk all day and night if he needed to. No, he literally can't go any further. As if his shoes are stuck in quick-drying cement, Sam's unable to move. His brain sends the message but his legs are completely disconnected. Dropping his bag on the dirt and rolling his shoulders, Sam looks from side to side. This stretch of road is no different from the miles before. No buildings tucked up into the horizon, there's just the same expanse of dead winter grass and low, leafless trees. Nothing to explain Sam's will draining away.

The longer he stands, the stranger he feels. There's nothing past this invisible barrier. Whatever's preventing Sam from going forward feels, well, it's not physical. He takes a step backwards. Then one to the left. One to the right. Sam even backs up and comes at the barrier running. Five steps away, a switch flips in his mind and he nearly stumbles in an effort to stop. He looks up at the clouds crowding towards the sun, nerves going taut up and down his spine. Someone—something—is watching.

"What the hell are you?" Sam's shout is hoarse and it doesn't echo back, nothing for the sound to reverberate off of. "Come on!"

The breeze dies down, clouds drifting with momentum to obscure the sun.

"What do you want?"

Like an ice cube sliding down Sam's spine, the unnatural quiet endures and stretches beyond what he can see. Sam pictures a snowglobe, the kind Dean used to steal from five-and-dimes when they were kids. A world encased in glass, Sam imagines himself standing at the edge, pounding against the transparent walls. An idyllic little world, empty but for a few souls trapped under the glass.

>  _No, Sam. If there's a way in, there's a way out, remember?_

  
He bets Dean would laugh his ass of at the idea of being imprisoned in a giant snowglobe. Sam turns off to the right and tramples a path through the grass until the road's a few hundred feet behind him. Even there he perceives the block, a foreign whisper in his mind that tells him not to step any further. Riley's confusing statements are beginning to make sense.

Back on the road, Sam starts yelling.

"Hey! You want me here? Fine!" He aims his shouts at the thickening sheet of stratus clouds. "But come out and show yourself!"

The gray skies overheard swirl and darken, mocking Sam. Telling him there's something big at work and he's no closer to getting out than he was when he first woke up.

Then, adding insult, it starts to rain.

"Dean. Get the door, man."

Sam mumbles and burrows further under the blankets. The pounding bled into his dreams, pushing him back to consciousness. Dean's got to be awake already—why the fuck hasn't he answered the door?

"Dude, seriously—" And he stops. Eyes open, Sam sighs.

Dean isn't here and Sam is sore, sinuses stuffed up from his walk back yesterday in the cold rain which had eased to a drizzle only when Sam had reached his front steps. The chilly water had seeped under his jacket, trickled along his skin until every inch of Sam's body erupted in shivers.

Someone's still knocking.

Sam flips off his blankets and crouches low, shuffling across the living room into the front hallway. The repetitive noise, more like pounding than knocking, stops for a few seconds. Definitely coming from outside, lower than the front door, as if someone is—

He raises up and peeks through the smudged pane of glass. Like everything else in this town, what Sam sees isn't what he expects.

The man kneeling at the bottom of his porch steps wears a faded flannel shirt under a denim jacket, dust and dirt clinging to his elbows and knees. His dark skin is weathered under his cap, he blends into Bells Pond like the rest of the seasoned structures, and his hands are rough as tree bark. The strangest thing of all is that he's definitely not knocking.

Sam leans further up. On the ground there's a rusted box of tools, metal ends sticking out haphazardly. The man is holding a hammer, gripped tight, swinging it down to meet evenly spaced nails along a fresh piece of timber. That bottom step has sagged and tripped Sam up every time he's walked in and out of the house, not yet conditioned to avoid it altogether. Now, the step is straight and even, no longer a rotting piece of wood.

He spies until the stranger kneels up straight, slipping his cap off and wiping sweat from his forehead. Then, the man looks straight at Sam's front door.

"Come on out, boy." His voice sounds worn-down with sand paper. "I ain't nobody to worry about."

Trusting anyone is absurd, but Sam stands and opens his door, moving no further than the threshold. The situation is a bizarre reversal of his meeting with Riley, but his gun and knife are out of reach on the table beside the couch.

The stranger grins, teeth bright against his dark lips. "You must be Sam. Riley told me we got another one."

"Another one?" Sam questions.

"Ain't too many people showing up here. Word spreads pretty fast when someone does. You done shocked Riley when you found her first, I guess I just moved too slow."

Gossip. Sam's in the middle of nowhere and there's still gossip. He wants to laugh but keeps a wary stance with one hand on the doorknob.

"How'd you know I was in this house?"

"Not many places 'round here are fit for someone to live in, and Riley figured you'd walked pretty far to her place." The stranger finally stands, a lean frame honed by years of hard labor. A dirty canvas toolbelt is latched around his waist, more tools shoved through frayed loops. "The name's Gus. Gus Peterson, 'case you were wondering." Sam stays where he is on the porch. Gus doesn't move, either. "I know it probably ain't easy for you to be here, Sam. I can tell you that the first few months? They're gonna be the hardest."

"Months?" Sam stammers. He'd balked when Riley said she'd been here a year, but she didn't know the things Sam did. Gus sounds dead certain, and Sam's eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

Gus shakes his head, indulgent grin as if Sam's a five-year old asking too many questions. "Come on down here, test this step for me." He ignores Sam's question completely and steps away. "These houses 'been left alone too long. Yours doesn't look too bad."

"So, what? It's your job to fix them?" Sam puts his weight on the step. It creaks but holds, and Gus nods.

"Wouldn't say it's a job, but I like keeping busy. Gotta give my hands something to do, keep 'em from growing old on me."

"Have you always been here?" Sam asks, backtracking up a few steps when Gus bends down to check his work. "When I talked to Riley, she mentioned that you just show up, and I started to wonder—"

"No—no, I guess I woke up here. Must of been about two years back, or so." He stares down at the step, hands fiddling with his pockets. "I come around every now n'then, check up on Riley. There are a few others, don't know if you've met 'em yet."

"Just Riley," Sam says. "How many others are there?" He asks because he hadn't been with Riley long enough for her to elaborate.

"You sure got a lot of questions, Sam," Gus responds with amusement. "At most, I figure there's seven of us, and that's including you. And because I know you're gonna ask, I'm pretty sure I was the first one."

"Haven't you tried to leave?"

"Ain't much reason to." Gus's voice lacks bitterness, acceptance softening the edges. "I got a decent place here and I'm all settled in. Didn't see much point in puttin' up a fuss."

Sam leans his weight on the porch rail, doesn't miss Gus scanning the wood posts for cracks. "Aren't you upset? I mean, when I talked to Riley, she told me she was scared when she got here. What about you? What happened before you came here?"

"That doesn't matter," Gus says.

"Yeah, but—"

"Maybe this place is better than the one I left." Gus waves off further questions when Sam opens his mouth. "Now, how about you let me take a look around—just outside if you want. I can see if there's anything big needs fixin'."

Gus picks up his toolbox, gnarled hands surprisingly dexterous and capable, and leaves Sam on the porch before he can say anything else. If he were thinking normally, he'd know he'd just been blown off.

Sam ducks inside when Gus disappears around the corner of the house. From there he watches with a hawk's eye, walking from window to window to follow Gus's progress. His curiosity is far from satisfied. Gus should be able to tell Sam much more than his notes and theories have amounted to, but the man never looks up as he lays his palms to Sam's house, bending low to study the foundation and utility pipes.

Lunch ends up being cereal and milk—well sniffed before pouring—so Sam can focus on his newest puzzle. Gus strikes Sam as content, brushing aside Sam's inquisition and lacking the fear and confusion he could sense at the heart of Riley's explanations. As if he saw nothing strange about a town whose inhabitants didn't move in—they appeared.

Later in the afternoon, after Sam's argued with Dean in his head— _So, you're just gonna piss off or ignore anyone who might be helpful?_ —he pulls on his jacket and walks outside, trails after Gus as he points out necessary little fixes, the result of time and neglect. Gus offers to fix every single thing.

"I'm not sayin' it's gonna get done right away, mind you," Gus clarifies. "Got other things I need to be doing 'round by the others. Weather's getting milder, thank the Lord, and you won't have to worry about your heat once this weather warms up. Spring's not too bad around—"

"You think I'm gonna be here that long?" Sam scoffs.

"Maybe, maybe not." It's clear in his tone what Gus thinks. "No harm being prepared for it, anyway." He tilts his head towards the low sun, grey light shining beneath his cap and Sam sees the matching sets of fine wrinkles around his eyes. "I think I'd best be off for the day, but it was good to meet you, Sam."

Sam shifts to block his path. "You're leaving?"

"Gonna have plenty of time for talking." Gus says it with a smile but Sam still scowls. "And I got a long walk back to the other side of Main Street."

Sam catches on those last words. "Main Street? You mean there's an actual town?" He remembers the crossroads during his wandering, his mind hadn't been ready to accept that Bells Pond was more than a long stretch of nothing. "The only house I saw was Riley's, besides the water tower."

"Yeah, it's 'bout half a mile to the south of the tower. Ain't much to see, of course. There's no one there, but we all pass through from time to time—something different to look at, I suppose." He sees Sam's mind working. "Bit too late to walk there and back tonight though, Sam."

The old man's right. He's not ready to chance being away from the house once the sun goes down. Gus leaves without ceremony, waving as he sets off down the road with his cap pulled low, tool box in hand.

Sam stands at the front door until Gus fades into the horizon. The resulting quiet is oppressive; Sam shakes it off and shuts the door.

Day Five—they've become capitalized in Sam's mind—is warmer, Spring wandering back to Nebraska after a long hiatus. Jacket and bag slung over his shoulder, Sam walks to the crossroads, an involuntarily shiver running down his spine. Nothing about the intersection is ominous; it's just the meeting of two dirt roads coming from nowhere and heading off the same way.

Riley's house is straight ahead. Sam's tempted to go that way but the water tower looms to the south and he forces his feet to make the turn.

Gus was right. There isn't much to Bells Pond.

The first thing Sam comes to is a diner. It looks like a dozen different joints he's eaten at, only this one's clearly been deserted for some time. Just like everything else, it's in disrepair. The sign propped above the narrow building on weathered stilts used to be fire engine red. Now faded to a dusty clay color, the white letters of BELLS POND DINER are caked with blown up dirt. The metal and glass front door is lying on the ground, grass growing through the handle, and raggedy juniper bushes have shot up towards the windows, scraggly branches mounting a slow assault on the beaten building.

A gas station stands sentinel at the next intersection where another dry cross-road spokes into nothing. With two broken pumps and a squat office without a single window intact, the ruined station stands guard before what Sam guesses used to be the main part of town. He expected something out of a horror movie but, at face value, Bells Pond looks like any other half-forgotten Midwest town with small aspirations and an even smaller population. The kind of place that's got what you need and not an ounce more, springing up at a central point between major farms. All that's missing are the people milling along Main Street, meeting other residents for a few minutes before going back to the isolation of their farmland homesteads.

A few buildings loom over the dusty street waiting in dilapidation for their occupants to return. The pavement is cracked under Sam's feet, weeds pushing through forcing the asphalt plates to break and shift. Dried leaves, no more than delicate, veined skeletons, have been blown against dirty curbs. Streetlights bend like mourners lined up on the sidewalk, black paint chipping off the metal to lie in flakes on the concrete.

Sam ends up in an unnamed hardware store with half-empty shelves and an old-fashioned cash register. Rusty tools litter the floor as if the entire display was hastily dropped, long handles stretching out to trip him. A wire rack is upended on the counter, spilling newspapers on the untended surface. The thin, yellowed pages are curling at the corners, papers brittle in Sam's hands. But the ink has withstood the rigors of climate and time, boldly proclaiming: **MYSTERIOUS PLAGUE TAKES McNOLTE FARM.**

And the date, _28 August 1988._

Sam's brain stutters, full-stop for a moment while his nerves process the shock. Confirming his suspicions, life in Bells Pond had obviously stopped a long time ago and left nothing but hollowed-out shells. The plague warned of in the headline could indicate so many things; Sam's mind is already thumbing through a mental Rolodex of supernatural creatures. His presence here, along with Riley and Gus, is the clue that tells Sam he's in the middle of something he's never experienced before. However, whatever wreaked havoc in 1988 might be swinging back now for another round, with Sam and the others dropped in for the show. Or worse, dropped in as bait.

He stuffs the newspaper in his bag and leaves after double checking the shelves and grabbing anything useful: matches in case the gift of electricity is suddenly rescinded, a hammer intended as more of a weapon, and the only container of rock salt in the store. Back on the sidewalk, he scans the street and wonders which of the abandoned buildings might have held the town offices—

—a prickle along Sam's skin; a faint buzz in his ears. Sam knows beyond a doubt that he's not alone. The street is deceptively silent, as eerie as if Sam's going to see tumbleweeds rolling by at any moment.

A shadow appears at the end of the block, long in the fading sunlight. It stretches out on the broken pavement and reaches the feet of a figure standing in the distance. With the sun behind the figure, Sam can't make out any features and his eyes are starting to sting. Sam backs up against the wall of the hardware store, sweatshirt scratching and catching on the rough brick, eyes peeled for sudden movement. The figure remains still as a statue. Wary, Sam draws his gun and checks his periphery but sees nothing.

>  _I've got your back._

  
When they've adjusted to the light, Sam's eyes discern the vague shape of a man with a coat hanging off of his slim build. It's clear Sam has a few inches on whoever this is but he makes no move to approach the man. He'd stumbled on Riley, been sought out by Gus, but he remains caught in a bizarre standoff with this new stranger.

The breeze picks up. A clatter behind Sam has him spinning around only to see a shutter slam shut in the wind. When he looks back a second later, the figure is gone.

  


>  _A room with no windows. Sterile and bland, the same thing in every direction. Sam's dreaming, fuzzy disconnect between his mind and body._
> 
>  _"I'm a little confused, Sam."_
> 
>  _No need to turn around; Lucifer materializes right in front of him._
> 
>  _"I'm confused because nobody's dropped your name in a week and I was starting to get worried. Usually it's all 'Sam' this and 'true vessel' that."_
> 
>  _"You," Sam stammers. "What the hell have you done?"_
> 
>  _"A lot of things. Do you want specifics?" Lucifer slouches against the whitewash. "Are we talking recently?"_
> 
>  _"This." Sam backs away._
> 
>  _"Your head is fair game." The Devil taps his own forehead. "We'll call it a practice run."_
> 
>  _Sam is spun in circles from the combination of the room and Lucifer. "Stay out of my head."_
> 
>  _"Is that a request?" Lucifer paces around him. "I like it in here. With a little rearranging, it won't be so bad."_
> 
>  _Nothing Sam does can yank him out of the dream._
> 
>  _"Stop pinching yourself. That never works, you know. You want out? Just ask, but I'm not sure being here is worse than whatever's waiting for you when you wake up."_
> 
>  _Sam stalks towards the Devil, Lucifer's eyes playing at amusement. "I knew you had something to do with this. Whatever you've done, I'm gonna get out and then—"_
> 
>  _Lucifer's laugh surrounds him. "A real go-getter, I like that. Go ahead, get out, and while you're doing that, I'll be out here with your brother all to myself."_
> 
>  _"You son of a bitch—"_
> 
>  _The Devil shrugs. "I need something to do when you're not around as a distraction, and finding Dean is going to be numero uno on my list." He holds up a finger and grins. "I've got a lot of demons working on it, eager to do a little ass-kissing by bringing me your brother's bloody corpse. So, you just sit tight, Sammy."_
> 
>  _"I swear, I'm going to—"_
> 
>  _"Oh, I think I've had about enough of this." Lucifer snaps—_

  
—Sam shoots up, blanket tangled around his calves. The backs of his knees are sweat-damp and a streak of sunlight burns across his cheek from where there's a gap in the kinked blinds. He blinks, stomach growling as soon as he's wide awake, lethargy gradually fading until he can get up and shake off—

The dream.

 _Dean_! Sam jumps, spins around the living room but there's not so much as a dust bunny out of place. Quiet and empty, the room is nothing compared to the ruckus in Sam's head, Lucifer's sharp words needling from the inside out.

>  _Your brother's bloody corpse._

  
The threats are impossible to shake. Sam weaves from window to window, double-checks his sigils and traps. Outside, the landscape of his own horror story is unchanged—dead fields listless in the calm air, no phantoms passing on the road. As the sun crosses from horizon to horizon, Sam stays put, vigilant against the devil-knows-what. Not even the revelation—confirmation, really—that Lucifer is pulling the strings with Sam's incarceration centers him. Dean's in danger and Sam is powerless to get the fuck out of this town. He's not going to stop even if it means he has to shatter the boundary that's holding him in.

The porch light is little help when the sun goes down, darkness encroaching on the house, already thick in Sam's mind. Nothing to see in the pitch dark and Sam finally settles for the night. No need for the Devil to interfere tonight as the only sleep Sam finds is fitful and laced with horrors of his own imagination.

Sam eats the last of the cereal on Day Eight. When he goes to look for breakfast on Day Nine, there's another box sitting in the cupboard. His protections are undisturbed, new salt lines remain in place. It happens again with the milk, gone one night and replaced by the time Sam wakes up.

The stocked shelves aren't a fluke, Sam considers, which makes sense if Gus and Riley have survived for so long. He understands the Devil not wanting him to starve, but the other residents are a mystery. What use could Lucifer have for them?

>  _I don't like where this is headed._

  
Dean's voice again, filling the empty hours. More reluctant to go outside since his dream, Sam is trapped by four walls and fear. He barely strays from the living room where he's afforded the best view of the road.

Used to the emptiness, Sam nearly misses the figure. Making no attempt to obscure himself, the man stands in the middle of the road, closer to Sam than he'd been in town. Wearing the same black trench coat, the man's gaze is fixed on Sam's house as if he senses Sam watching.

Neither Riley or Gus had mentioned anything about a coated man. The twinge in Sam's gut tells him that this man is more than just another stranger pulled into the puzzle of Bells Pond. Something is off in the atmosphere, a heaviness not unlike humidity. Rigid and stoic, the man remains in the road while Sam debates his options. He could be a messenger, a demon—someone sent to prevent Sam from leaving.

Short on answers, frustration blunting his sense, Sam picks up his gun and slips to the front door. As if he'd been a trick of Sam's imagination all along, the man is gone when Sam steps outside. Whatever current had electrified the air has fizzled and burnt out, leaving nothing but the slow drift of clouds overhead and a pervasive silence.

>  _The room hasn't changed, the sterility clogging his perception. Physically, Sam is alone, no sign of the Devil when he turns around. A sudden rush of foreign emotion strikes, rising through Sam. Starting at his knees and expanding through his chest, the anger consumes until his entire body alights in a white-hot blaze._
> 
>  _The rage is not his own but he cannot force it away. A flash of a dark room, so different from the one he's standing in, with rust scattered along pipes and machinery like an ochre dust. Like his visions of years ago, the cutting pain and blinding storm stuffs itself inside Sam's skull, threatening to tear him apart. The fury casts about for a way out, battering violently against Sam's bones. Begging to be unleashed, the anger searches for something to destroy. A target—_
> 
>  _In a heartbeat he's back to white walls and loneliness, a familiar laugh echoing around the room. The rage is trampled in an instant, and not by Sam's doing, to be replaced with unadulterated glee. Triumph, threading from Lucifer's mind to Sam's, is a heavier weight to bear than the anger, pushing and smothering until Sam's forced onto his knees—_

  


Sam finds himself drawn to the crossroads in the middle of the night.

Dawn will bring his Thirteenth Day in Bells Pond, but the dream had driven Sam out of the house and onto the dark roads hours before the sun would make its appearance. He finds his way by moonlight, loaded gun tucked at his back.

There's not even a whisper of a breeze from any direction. Summoning a demon is not his intention. Sam's brought nothing to bury and he doubts anything from the Pit would come to bargain. He has nothing to offer beyond his body and there's only one creature who would come to collect—

"This is the last place I expected to find you, Sam."

He turns, the unfamiliar voice shattering the night. Walking towards him is the man in the black coat. Sam straightens immediately, judging the shrinking distance between them. When the stranger is less than twenty feet away, Sam draws his gun and clicks the safety off, arm steady and level in front of him.

"I would think a place like this holds too many unfortunate memories." He takes no notice of the firearm. "If it's a deal you're seeking, you will fail."

"Who the hell are you?"

The question must be unexpected; the stranger's expression turns quizzical. "Perhaps it's better if you don't know."

"It doesn't matter," Sam growls, his steady aim placing the cross-hairs between the man's eyes. "I want answers."

"I imagine you must." The stranger takes another step closer. He's the sort of man Sam would have passed on any street and forgotten a second later. Short black trench coat swinging at his thighs with his stride, plain white shirtfront and dark pressed slacks. Even his face is unmemorable, nothing remarkable about his short black hair and pedestrian features. If he weren't standing here at the crossroads, Sam might mistake him for a Fed—stuffy and bland, features meant to blend with a crowd. "I would have come to you sooner, but certain measures made that impossible."

"Measures?" Sam blinks and the realization dawns. _Christo_ comes on his very next breath. The stranger doesn't flinch. If not the trap, then— "The sigils," Sam mutters, lowering the gun a fraction. "You—are you an angel?"

He doesn't confirm that either. "I believe Gus began calling me the Wanderer after I gave him no other name."

His name—given or otherwise—hardly matters. "If you know who I am, why won't you tell me what's going on?" Sam asks. Angels are higher than demons on his list of creatures to be wary of. At least the demons want him alive. "I can't stay here. I've got to be out there, fighting and—"

"Your fight is done, Sam." The Wanderer interrupts.

"What? No—no, you have to let me out of here. You know what's going on out there, right?"

"Very much so."

Sam's whole body tenses. "Then you realize—"

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you go. It's beyond my power. This—" he turns and indicates the barren world around the crossroads, "is where you must remain."

"Bullshit," Sam snaps despite overwhelming evidence that the Wanderer is right. "This place, it can't be real."

"It's very real, as are the people in it," the Wanderer says as if anticipating Sam's follow-up statement.

"Then what happened here?"

The Wanderer isn't bothered by Sam's tone. "Demons. Or rather, a pestilence sent by demons for amusement more than twenty years ago. Understandably, those who survived the resulting destruction left soon after."

"And then what? Someone—you?—put the town on ice until now? Just sitting here, ready for something evil to come back?"

"This land's been wiped clean," he explains with more patience than Sam wants to tolerate. "No bones, no spirits, there's nothing left to lead evil here again. I don't know why this is so hard for you to accept."

"Who's protecting this place?" A more horrifying thought occurs to Sam and he brings the gun back up, pointing straight between the Wanderer's dispassionate eyes. "Or is the protection a lie? There's nothing to stop Lucifer from just walking in here, is there? It's a trap."

"Not a trap," the Wanderer says, though it's a hollow assurance. "You're going to have to trust me, Sam."

Despite himself, Sam laughs harshly. The Wanderer remains unaffronted, as cool and unflappable as those Vulcans Sam grew up idolizing when Dean let him watch Star Trek after school. "That's not going to happen."

"Perhaps it doesn't need to," the Wanderer considers casually, as if he and Sam were deciding what to pack for a long weekend. Absolutely ridiculous.

"Look, if you're not going to help me get out—"

"I'm not."

"—then there's no reason for you to just stick around and talk."

"If that's what you want."

Sam blinks and the Wanderer is gone. The loneliness crowds around Sam like a dense fog, trailing along behind him as he walks the empty road back to the house.

Regret is easy and inevitable. In the stretch of time between getting back to the house and sunrise, Sam regrets not pressing the Wanderer for more information. His frustration had barely registered with the cryptic man—angel, if Sam's gut was right—as if the conversation was nothing out of the ordinary.

He could have asked about Riley and the others, the part they play. The boundary and what created it. As for Sam's dreams—what would the Wanderer have to say about those?

Sam wastes a day on regrets and hypotheticals, waiting for the Wanderer to reappear. He does not.

The orange juice runs out for the second time on Day Fifteen. Sam throws the empty carton in the trash—which he's noticed conveniently empties itself overnight when it's full.

"How about cranberry juice next time?" Sam asks the fridge door, but it ignores him.

>  _Way to start the day, Sammy. Talking to the appliances._

  
Before he starts complaining to the old, clunky blender about Dean's shitty, unhelpful comments, Sam steps out of the kitchen. His notes are spread on the table, exactly where they've been for the last week, as useless now as they'd been before Sam met the Wanderer.

He scuffs over the Devil's Trap carved into his floor, wonders if it's useless.

>  _Nothing left to lead evil here._

  
Everything Sam had been told, every whispered insinuation, placed him at the center of the Apocalypse in a pivotal role. The Wanderer implied that Sam Winchester meant little in his scheme; his disappointment is unexpected and jarring. It's horrifying for Sam to think his suffering was for nothing, or that his great losses can't be tempered by the role he was sure he needed to play.

Soft thumping reaches Sam's ear. It takes a minute to place the sound: light steps up onto his porch followed by a cautious knock. A round face peers through the window, Riley giving Sam a small wave.

"I wasn't really expecting anyone," Sam says after he lets her in.

"I know, but I felt like I needed to get out today." Her fingers twist together in front of her stomach. "Nice weather and all."

It's overcast, biting when the wind picks up. Sam can't help smiling and Riley shares the joke.

"Gus came by a few days ago to fix some funky wiring. He mentioned where you were living and I wanted to see you."

Sam objects to her use of the word _living_. "Yeah, he was around more than a week ago." Feels twice as long. "Nice guy."

"Helpful, too," Riley adds. "But he's pretty quiet unless you get him started on something. You know, he reminds me of the super in my building when I was in college. I could never track him down, but he showed up to fix things when I least expected him. I guess that's a little creepy," she says with a strange fondness. She shuffles over the carving Sam has been contemplating but never acknowledges the markings.

Sam can't remember how to play host, but he invites Riley into the kitchen since it's less of a disaster than the rest of the house.

"You have a computer?"

Sam's silver laptop peeks out from beneath his notes. He quickly gathers the notes and slides them underneath the computer. "It came with me, but I can't connect to anything." He'd tried daily for nearly two weeks. "I can charge it, listen to some music." He doesn't even do that much, too many reminders in the lyrics. Not all of his songs are the right songs, either. Quirky guitar and piano rhythms where he wants heavy riffs and a blaze of drums. "It's more frustrating than anything else."

When he offers food, Riley jumps at the suggestion. He would have made simple turkey-on-wheat, but she picks through his cupboards and eventually presents two stacked sandwiches sliced into triangles, thicker than Sam's wrists.

"Did I have all of that?"

Riley smiles. "I've learned to use what we get."

They eat lunch over smaller-than-small talk. Riley comments on his house and Sam side-steps anything too personal until Riley waves off his evasiveness and skips back to a subject she'd hinted at when they first met.

"I'm not dumb, Sam." She fiddles with pulls in the chair's cushion. "I know that this—here—is wrong. I'm not sure what happened to me before I got here, but I know I left things behind."

"I don't think anyone chooses to come here," Sam offers bitterly. The voice of the brother he left behind is silent in his head.

"I guess not." Another awkward silence stretches between them until Riley sighs. "What was it like, out there..."

Her voice, already shaky, trails to nothing. Sam has been dreading the question, unsure he can articulate what the world was like for him. So unsettled, tumultuous—he and Dean in a world unto themselves while everyone else had only a vague notion of the impending upheaval.

"If you don't remember—"

"I remember," he says. "But I don't think it's anything you want to hear."

"Figured there was a reason I couldn't remember a whole lot," Riley sighs. "Gus told me not to ask you." Sam holds onto that piece of information as she continues. "You seem a little different from anyone else I've met here. Granted, that's only, like, three other people. I thought if anyone would be willing to talk, it would be you."

Her sympathetic maneuvering leaves little room for Sam. "I don't know that I'm different," he says honestly. "I don't belong here, and I never asked to be ripped away from my life. There were things I needed to do—"

"Have you tried to get out?"

His shoulders slump. "Lots of times, but I've never made it."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Sam looks up at her. "We're all stuck in the same situation, aren't we?"

Riley thinks, her eyes tracking along a water stain on Sam's ceiling. "I've never heard Gus talk about getting out. He tells me that I can't leave, but I don't know if he's ever tried. Maybe you haven't been around him long enough, but he seems happy here, you know? The others, well, some of them are the same way. Skittish, and they barely leave their houses. I was scared for a long time, though, because this isn't exactly a get-away I'd have planned for myself." She looks at Sam to see if he's grinning but he can't quite fake it. "You, though. I don't know your story, but you're not like the rest of us."

Sam can't think of a response to satisfy either of them and their conversation lags into sparse words and long silences. Riley's not overly concerned but she eventually stands and thanks Sam for lunch.

"You did most of the work," he says.

"Still, thanks. This was nice."

Nice isn't the appropriate word, but Sam's world feels less empty than when he woke up. For a moment he considers asking Riley if she knows anything about the Wanderer, but the mysterious man's familiarity with Sam has him keeping those cards close to his chest. And, he suspects, Gus will have much more to say about the cryptic angel.

Riley leaves with a smile after she elicits Sam's promise to visit. There's not enough daylight left for Sam to make anything out of the rest of the afternoon and, for the third night in a row, Sam doesn't leave the house. Later, his spine creaks and protests when he tries to lie down on the couch; Sam's long legs have had enough of the short, lumpy sofa. For the first time since he woke up here, Sam falls asleep in the sparse bedroom, piled deep underneath his stockpile of blankets.

When he wakes up on Day Sixteen, there's cranberry juice sitting innocently in his fridge.

Sam slams the refrigerator door so hard it rocks back on its feet, top edge butting into the drywall.

Sitting up in bed, Sam rubs his achingly dry eyes. Lucifer had no hand in the nightmare that woke him; Sam's mind was blisteringly efficient at creating its own desolate, awful landscapes for his dreams to play out on.

If he still believed in prayer, he'd hope to the heavens that it was his subconscious providing such bleak images, rather than true glimpses of the world outside of Sam's snow-globe. In the three weeks he's been in Bells Pond, there's no telling what kind of atrocities have ravaged the rest of the world.

Yesterday, Sam had resumed his walks after his latest attempt to beat the old Ford into shape, literally, had failed. He'd kicked up dust for hours, half expecting to find the Wanderer tailing him, and pushed against those invisible walls that circled the town. No angel dropped out of the clear sky to mock his lack of progress; Sam's only company had been the buzzing of tiny insects ready for Spring and birds hopping through the new grass shoots.

He follows a different road today and is never disturbed. Each time Sam comes to the last step preceding the boundary, he imagines what he would see if he were able to set his foot down on the other side. If the soles of his shoes would touch down on dusty gravel, cracked and pebbled, or on charbroiled earth, blackened and brittle. Useless to think about; Sam can never take that final, liberating step.

He slumps all the way back, somehow not surprised to find Gus rounding the corner of his house.

"Came back to see if I could get a fix on that old water heater of yours," the old man says before Sam opens his mouth. "I tinkered with it a bit 'n hopefully you'll be able to get more than a few minutes of hot water."

After a blunt acknowledgment, Sam walks silently to his porch and sits on the second step. He doesn't look up when Gus follows.

"Looks like you've had a rough time of it, Sam."

Sam's laugh comes out as a cough through his parched throat. "You think?"

"I know it can't be easy." His sympathetic tone is perfectly delivered. It slaps Sam in the face.

"I don't care what you think you know," Sam snaps. Between the dreams, the Wanderer's lingering taunts, and his own impotence, Sam's fed up. "You know nothing about me! I'm not like you," he accuses Gus. "Being here isn't some dream and keeping me trapped in your precious little world is probably going to get us all killed!"

"It's not me keepin' you here—"

"Right," Sam seethes. "I heard it from your angel buddy. The Wanderer, or whatever you call him. Loud and clear, I'm stuck in this fuckin'—"

Gus holds out one gnarled hand, the gesture bringing Sam to silence though his anger remains unabated. Unlike the angel, Gus sticks around to bear Sam's rage. How human of the carpenter, staying to fix things.

"I knew there was something different 'bout you, Sam," Gus echoes Riley's words. "I ain't in league with the Wanderer, if that's what you're thinking. That angel brought me here, same as everybody else."

"But no one else knows who he is, right?" He'd never actually asked Riley, but Sam had begun to suspect. "Have they even seen him?"

"Don't imagine so. He's a might unpredictable, catches me off guard when he decides to drop in and tell me we got another one coming."

The late afternoon breeze kicks up. There's a hint of warmth on the wind these days. Gus tilts his face towards the West and catches the sun on its descent. The hardwood is uncomfortable for Sam's back but he sits, watches Gus merge so easily with the land and sky.

"You're not gonna believe a word I say," Gus says. "This place ain't a punishment, but you can't see that. I don't quite know why you're here—the Wanderer ain't the kind to share information like that—but there's a reason. Me?" He sighs, the answer itself a weight. "I'm here 'cause I've got nothing else." Gus gestures towards the wide, illuminated fields surrounding them. "It doesn't seem so bad when you've got nothing left out there, no one to fight your way back to."

"I left someone out there," Sam struggles to say. "Maybe you're not being punished, but I am. And I have to fight."

Gus eases his cap off, rubs his forehead on his shirtsleeve. "I'm sympathetic Sam, I really am. If you've gotta fight, then I ain't gonna stop you, but I'm telling you that the others? None of 'em have a lick of an idea why they're here, and I think it's best that it stays that way." Sam nods at Gus's heavy pause. "Just remember, we're not the ones you need to be fightin'. Rage all you like to me, and I'll listen, but let the others find their peace."

"Peace?" Sam scoffs. Gus levels him with his eyes. "Fine, got it," he adds petulantly.

They've used up enough words for one day. Gus takes Sam's silence as dismissal and he walks away, rag flapping in his back pocket as he lumbers off. Nothing Sam heard gave him hope, left now with a sinking heart and unfortunate memories. For weeks, he's tried to push thoughts of Dean to the back of his mind where they'd be safe in case Bells Pond drove Sam crazy. But after admitting to Gus what he'd left behind, Sam's mind inevitably drifts to Dean, to the three weeks and unknown number of miles separating them.

Sam fights. From sun-up to sun-down, he fights against Bells Pond but he crawls into the same bed every night.

For every day that passes, Sam loses a piece of himself to the empty fields and open sky. He loses much more in his dreams where Lucifer taunts him with an alarming regularity.

>  _See you soon, Sam. I'll be sure to tell Dean 'hello' for you._

  
His sightings of the Wanderer disintegrate into tricks-of-the-light, flares in his vision that are gone when he turns around. The angel wisely keeps his distance. Occasionally, Sam visits Riley when he needs human contact. Her floodgates are open; she talks to Sam about her old dogs, the farm she'd visited every summer growing up. Riley's eyes start to shine more and more after she's spilled memories to Sam. He hears two out of every ten words Riley says, but she never calls him on it. Reluctantly, Sam starts to like her.

Gus makes himself available, loitering around Sam's property with a long list of things to meddle with and fix. Sam suspects he's just making good on his offer to listen—yeah, right—but they rarely speak beyond false pleasantries.

Sam walks until his feet have touched every mile of road between his house and Gus's. He's walked hundreds of miles, covered every inch of his strange world and felt where the boundary rises up to block him. He gives up before his soles are worn through and turns his mind to a different kind of fight. He pours himself into what little research he can manage with skeletal information, picking up theories at breakfast and abandoning them before lunch.

On Day Thirty-three, it hits Sam.

Tepid water rushes over his palms, his entire body frozen at the kitchen sink. The hiss of the faucet blends with the roar between Sam's ears.

It's been nearly five weeks and Sam hasn't gotten anywhere. He sleeps on the left side of the bed and knows exactly how long he needs to run the bathroom sink before the water is hot enough to wash his face.

He's _not_ going anywhere.

The faucet keeps running, water pouring over the stack of dishes piled in the sink. Sam collapses against the cupboard, drawing his knees up to his chest, and he can barely hear himself crying over the sound of the water.

He's not going anywhere.  


In the beginning, Sam considered Bells Pond to be Hell on Earth.

But Sam knew about Hell. A lifetime ago, he'd seen it in the fire-terror that ringed Dean's pupils. Hell has spoken in his own mind—finely shaped whispers that threaten on one beat and seduce on the next—but the Devil's voice has remained silent for nearly a year.

Bells Pond isn't Hell, nor is it Heaven. Neither here nor there, the little town sits. It feels like Limbo, where the world stops and ceases to turn. Sam knows differently. Beyond the bleached plains and empty fields, the world keeps going, spinning out of control on the tip of some great power's finger. The object of a strife waged since the stars were newly born, a war Sam is no longer a part of. His heart still beats for the battle, and for the one he hopes is still out there, leading the charge.

By now, Hell must be everywhere except Bells Pond. Sam wishes he could be anywhere else.

March 28th

The Wanderer stops outside of Sam's house at a quarter to eight on Monday morning. Sam doesn't bother going out to meet him. He scrambles three eggs, eats them without salt, and drinks his milk straight from the carton before he deigns to step onto his porch.

"Sam."

"You know, I was getting used to you leaving me alone."

"It was what you wanted," the angel says. Today, his blue eyes are as clear as the sky and the hem of his pants are dirt-tarnished. "Today is different."

Sam snorts. "Nothing's different. I woke up and I was still here." The only clouds Sam can see are gathered on the western horizon. Thick and low, they throw themselves against the boundary the way Sam has done so often. The rest of the sky is a glorious blue Sam takes little interest in. "Did you do something to the weather?"

The Wanderer continues to look at Sam as if he's an amusing pet to keep around and poke at. "I can't control the weather."

"Then why is today different?"

"You'll see. I assume you'll go back inside after this," he answers, eyebrow piqued. "Perhaps to attempt another escape?"

Sam repeats the familiar line. "I won't stop trying until I'm gone."

"Good." A grin splits the Wanderer's face; Sam scowls. "I'll know where you'll be. Have a good day, Sam."

That _is_ different. "Where I'll be for what?"

But the Wanderer is already walking away and he won't turn around. Sam taps the flickering bulb in his hallway light when he goes back inside. Notes, theories and concepts scribbled over to the point they've become unintelligible, fan out across the kitchen table where they've gone untouched for... Sam doesn't bother remembering. Not long enough to forget the futility of new ideas.

Time and time again the Wanderer has taken pains to make sure Sam knew he wasn't leaving. Calm reason hadn't shaken Sam's drive so he switched to cutting remarks, slicing Sam with his ice-cold tone until he deduced the perfect blow.

>  _"I told you that you were done fighting, Sam."_
> 
>  _"But it's my—"_
> 
>  _"Your job? Or, your destiny? There is no destiny. You must realize, not everyone wanted you out there fighting. You're here because it was easier and they wanted you out of the way."_
> 
>  _"They who? If it's true, and I can't get out of here, then why are you still keeping it a secret?"_
> 
>  _"It's not important."_
> 
>  _"The hell it's not!"_
> 
>  _"Think of this as one big time-out for you, Sam. A chance to get your priorities straight."_

  
Those were the last words Sam had heard from the Wanderer before today. Five months of silence hadn't given Sam the relief he'd hoped for, the angel's sharp words haunting even without his physical presence.

Sam's priorities had never wavered; they'd been a clear, driving force since Lucifer was set free and they were not orders to be compromised or put straight. He needed to stop the Apocalypse. Sam might not be Heaven's Chosen One, but he'd been bent to his task. The chance to redeem himself lay at the end of Sam's road, a winding and unforgiving trail littered with pieces Sam had lost along the way. In his first dark months in Bells Pond, the Wanderer had known exactly how to dig at Sam. Now, he's back with a fresh game and Sam is out of practice.

Pacing uneasily, Sam keeps one eye on the road in case the infuriatingly obtuse angel comes back.

Sam hasn't lacked company over the last year, though he wouldn't classify his existence as anything other than lonely. He sees Riley more than Gus, but the old carpenter hasn't been a stranger. The other people unfortunate enough to be dropped in Bells Pond keep to themselves; petrified or lonely, they scarcely leave their homes. Sam catches a glimpse once in a while when he's out on his constant patrols of the boundaries, never approaching. He knows Gus does what he can for them, patching up their old places and leaving them be.

"Can't force 'em out," he'd confided in Sam one day a few months past, both picking at a lunch Sam had thrown together in exchange for Gus's handiwork on his roof. "Doesn't mean I'm not worried. It's no good for 'em to be spending so much time alone like that. I figure if I don't check, they might have—" He'd left it at that. Sam had understood.

Terrified or not, each person Sam met or heard about in Bells Pond was just that. A person, as regular as Gus or Riley, with no solid guess as to why they'd been plucked out of their lives and dropped here. Sam didn't doubt that his presence there was due to one of three archangels. Zachariah—douche bag of the heavens—might've kicked Sam to the curb to rein Dean in. Same went for Michael, though his motives were a bigger mystery. Lucifer though—he was the biggest conundrum. He had cause to want Sam away from Dean and Castiel, but to leave Sam here? The Devil had already bought his ticket—he was just waiting in line for the ride.

The others, though—Sam wonders what heaven or hell wants with them.

Sam's clothes are in the cramped mudroom, folded or hung over the old washer and dryer. He grabs a shirt from the closest hanger and a pair of jeans sitting on the dryer to replace his ratty t-shirt and flannel pants, then wanders back towards the kitchen to decide what to do with the rest of his day.

Day Three Hundred and Sixty Five begins the same way as all the rest.

The knock comes ten minutes later.

Gus never bothers to knock. When she comes over, Riley tends to use the back door; it's closer to the kitchen and she's usually carrying whatever she baked for Sam.

A large body stands in the path of the morning sunlight that normally filters through Sam's front door, throwing its bulky shadow across in Sam's front hall. Warped by the weight of time, the oak door creaks as it swings open—the last sound Sam hears before his world goes silent.

Dean is smiling at him, back-lit by the sun. His lips part, shaping around words in slow motion. A light breeze picks up; it must be playing the blades of grass against one another in a dry crackle, the cool wind sending leaves across his gutter with soft scratches. Sam hears nothing, lost in the dead roar. The wave of silence shatters.

"Hey, Sammy." There's a texture to his voice, a dimension it lacked in Sam's head. Dean blinks, focuses to prove Sam isn't a trick of the light. "Miss me?"

Sam's toe catches on the threshold; Dean hooks him before he trips. Solid arms are suddenly around Sam, digging into his shirt, testing his build like Sam could be an empty shell instead of the real thing. Sam curves over his brother, chin forced against Dean's shoulder and their edges match up. Dean is real.

"Dean—" Sam has to push the necessary breath out of his lungs. "I thought you might be dead."

Dean snorts dismissively, angling his face away to look at Sam. "You think anyone would let me rest in peace, huh?" He brings his palm down on Sam's shoulder before pushing back.

There are new creases in Dean's leather jacket, wear marks and scuffs he's never noticed before. Whatever he's done, Dean's life has been very different from Sam's over the last year. The marks speak to Sam of hunts he hasn't been around for, battles Dean's had to fight on his own. Sam is too happy to let them matter; the sight of his brother breathing and whole loosens every knot tied within him.

"How the hell did you find me?" Sam lets Dean pass through the front door. "Was it the angels? Did one of them finally tell you where I was?"

"Sam—" Dean pauses, eyes passing over everything that's made up Sam's life for the last year. "I like what you've done with the place. Very Little House on the Prairie."

"Come on," Sam laughs shakily. "Just for that, you're not getting the tour." Figures his brother would go straight for a joke. The house doesn't matter anymore—Sam just wants to go. "Has it really been a year? I mean, it could have—"

Dean shakes his head. "No tricks. Man, the last time I saw you was in Tennessee."

"Did you figure out who sent me here? I can't imagine what you must have thought. God, Dean." Sam hopes his brother can't see him shaking. "I was going out of my mind with no idea what the hell was going on."

"I'm glad you're okay. You're a sight, seriously. I thought, maybe..." Dean sighs. "I thought a lot of things, I guess."

"Me too." Sam's recycled the same horrible possibilities all year. "I can't believe they did this to us. I fucking tried everything to get out of here. Are you—I mean, is everything okay out there?"

"Out there? You're not in some bio-dome." Dean smiles.

"I might as well be!" The kitchen's cramped with two people; Dean fills Sam's atmosphere more completely than Gus or Riley ever could. "I don't know anything, and I had no way of finding out—"

"Hey, Sam. It's okay." Dean pins him, forehead tight. "I'm alright, and the rest of the world? It's surviving, I guess."

"You guess?"

Dean's eyes drift away over the nicked wooden paneling and the stack of dirty dishes piled haphazardly in the sink. Cleaning hasn't been one of Sam's priorities, but it's not his house and Sam tramples the urge to give the kitchen a quick cleaning to impress his brother. He's been alone for way too long.

"Yeah, I guess. I'm not sure what you want to know."

"The freakin' Apocalypse, Dean! Remember that?" It almost comes out as a joke but Sam feels the edge in his voice. He can read the discomfort in every line on Dean's face. He'd looked so perfect when Sam opened the door, surrounded by sunlight, but now the imperfections manifest in Sam's eyes. He sees a deeper ruggedness in Dean, a tool used too often that's starting to wear. "Are you still fighting?"

"Well, the war's not over yet."

Strangely, Sam breathes easier. "What are we still doing here? A year, Dean—I've been trying to escape and I just need to get out. Get me back in the fight." Sam needs to rally, get his chance to save the world he so blindly cast into shadow.

"It's not that simple."

Sam fixes Dean with a sharp stare. Strong emotions are clouding around Dean in a haze.

"Can't we just, I don't know, relax for a bit?"

Sam scowls. "You want to relax?"

"I just got here." Dean sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, sliding his jacket off and draping it over the back. "I haven't seen you in so fucking long. Can't we talk?"

He's missing something big; it crowds into the kitchen between Sam and Dean. Sam's perfectly willing to talk, but he wants to be well on his way out of this forsaken town while he's doing it.

"Sure." Sam takes the other chair, wood worn down to fit perfectly along the back of Sam's legs as he spent long hours pouring over his futile scribblings, filling his laptop with long lists of what he knows and even lengthier lists of what he doesn't. "Just tell me what's going on and then we can get out of here."

"You're ready to go, huh?" Dean tilts his chin up. "This doesn't seem so bad. You've got everything you need, some peace and quiet—"

"Dean," Sam stops him before it gets worse. "This isn't a vacation. Someone is keeping me out of the fight—so I wouldn't say yes, so you would say yes, I don't know—but we've got to get out of here." To Sam, the danger of having them both in Bells Pond is more than apparent.

"Sam—"

"No." Sam's palm strikes the table. The sharp sound sends Dean to his feet and Sam follows. "Either you don't get it or you're hiding something, so what the hell?"

"I said yes."

Once again the sound rushes out of Sam's ears to leave him gaping. "You—" He barely hears his own words. "You _what_?"

Shadows creep into Dean's eyes. "I said yes to Michael."

Every muscle in Sam's body tenses and he tears out with his fists. Slow motion, like striking under water, he sees Dean's eyes go wide—surprised but accepting—and his jaw squares for impact. The resignation, that Dean is prepared for violence, makes Sam shift his stance at the last possible second and his fist shatters the drywall inches from Dean's temple. Plaster flakes and dust bloom between them. Sam steps out of the cloud, into the hallway. Dean's face is a too tempting of a bull's eye.

Dean steps haltingly around the corner. Sam's gratified to see his guilt.

"Come on," Dean mutters through his clenched jaw. "I'll give you a free shot."

"You think that's what it's gonna take?"

Dean waits for Sam to lash out, but Sam's mind is busy flashing through the instances when Dean had refused the angels; each time Dean threw offers back in their faces.

"We were never supposed to say yes." Sam hisses. Together. United. It was all they'd had left before, even if the concept had lost luster every day. "Free will, remember?" He pleads.

Dean laughs with little humor. He's dry and deprecating, repulsed by his own reaction. "Did you really believe in free will, Sam?"

"I thought we did."

"Yeah, well. Whoever was trying to sell us free will was full of shit."

He doesn't know how Dean can say it, or what events turned him so completely from what he and Sam believed. The gap of time between them has never stood wider.

"You just gave up?"

"Sam—

"Did you even care that I disappeared? Or were you too busy being their sword to wonder what happened to me?"

Sam catches a spark of emotion cross Dean's face.

"You think I would have let this happen if there'd been another way?" Dean's shout hits Sam from every side. "What, did you have some grand plan you didn't tell me about? I don't know if you'd noticed, Sam, but we took two steps back every-damn-day with nothing to make up for it."

"What happened?" Sam begs. "What changed to make you think that it was okay to say yes?"

"It's not important—"

"Dean!"

"I struck a deal, okay?"

A deal. That word severs Sam's last sense.

"I thought we weren't making deals anymore!" He hits Dean where it'll hurt the most.

"There was no choice left! Fuck, Sam—" Dean's fists are clenched; Sam's front door won't withstand the battering if Dean lashes out. "We were spinning our wheels. I didn't know what else to do."

"So you sold me out to Michael, is that it? The angels wanted me out of the way and, once they had you, I was worth nothing."

"I can't make you understand." Sam picks up an echo from the past: Dean, just risen from Hell, questioning everything Sam said or did. All Sam had wanted was for Dean to understand, to trust Sam beyond anything he could explain in order for them both to move on. Now, Dean is playing with Sam's life with the same disregard.

"You're gonna have to try, Dean," Sam grates.

He thinks Dean's going to walk out of the house and, for a moment, Sam considers letting him. If Dean was allowed into Bells Pond, maybe he has his own way out and Sam can hitch a ride on whatever angel mojo Dean's got working.

Dean paces and Sam feels the pent up energy, wishing Dean would use it to talk instead. He steps through the patches of sunlight streaming through the windows and Sam glances out to the empty road where the Wanderer had stood barely an hour ago. The angel's earlier behavior makes sense. If he knew Dean was coming—

"You've got to be kidding," Sam huffs. "Your angels wouldn't leave me here without a babysitter? Some deal, Dean."

"They're not my angels," Dean protests with a new vehemence. "I've still got Cas hanging around. He wasn't too keen on this plan either. And Michael—"

"How's that work anyway?" Sam butts in. "Did he have to let you out for this little field trip? Visitation hours while you're back in your own body, or is he here, too?"

Dean stares hard for a moment, gauging what Sam really wants to know. "It's not—it doesn't work the way we thought it would. I'm not just some suit Michael's wearing to the prom. He needs me."

"We knew that."

"No, I mean he needs me to do things. Things only his vessel can do." Dean crosses his arms and leans, a poor attempt at nonchalance. "He hasn't taken me for a joyride yet." A tic in Dean's jaw, gone in an instant. He's lying, Sam's positive. "I'm not sure what to tell you. I asked for help and he answered."

"And just like that, you trusted him after everything we'd promised?" Sam thinks of the times he'd sworn Lucifer would never get the better of him. A Winchester promise has always meant more, at least to Sam. A bond, an ineffable part of their code. "People are going to die, Dean—"

"They're dying anyway!" Dean's arms whip up angrily. "This is about an end to the war, getting Lucifer back in the prison where he belongs. And you—you coming here was part of the deal."

Saw's jaw locks, teeth clenching against a tirade of emotion flooding between to his temples to throb beneath the skin. Everything he's known for the last year erupts.

"This—you did this?" His voice booms through the silence and Dean balks.

"It was the best way."

"I was—I had _no_ idea, and you're saying that you planned this?"

"Think about it, Sam!" Dean defends. "You're safe. Michael told me it could take years before Lucifer's back in the slammer. Time's, like, nothing to the angels, so where would that leave you? The longer you were exposed, the greater the chance for—"

"I was _never_ going to say yes," Sam spits. "I swore."

"I know." Dean's voice gentles, a pitiful attempt to stroke Sam down. "This way we're both protected."

"Here I was knowing jack shit and all this time you knew exactly—"

"I didn't know a damn thing, Sam!"

"How can you say that?" Sam asks, throwing his hands in Dean's face. "You made the deal. You sent me here. I can't believe I thought about how freaked you'd be."

"I was still worried! All I had was Michael's word." Dean blocks his angry gestures. "He could have lied. All those protections he promised could have been a joke and nothing would have stopped Lucifer from finding you and forcing you to say yes."

"Then why'd you do it?"

"Sam—"

"No." Sam flings it back in Dean's face. "Tell me."

"You heard me! We were out of options."

"To stop the Apocalypse, right. Got that," Sam snaps nastily. Now he's the one crossing his arms, telling Dean exactly what he thinks. "If this is the way it's supposed to go, I could have helped. You didn't need to hand me over."

The challenge drops unanswered, Dean stepping into Sam's messy living room, eyes drawn anywhere but Sam's face. He sits in the only empty square foot of space on the couch. Lingering, Sam watches Dean rub his hand down his face, throwing new lines into deeper relief.

Less than an hour ago Sam had been utterly relieved—a year's worth of pressure gone the instant he saw his brother on the stoop. The reality couldn't be more different, now that arguments outnumber answers.

"You've got to tell me." Sam lowers his voice to implore rather than demand. A little brother seeking reassurance. "Whatever it is."

"How many times did we hear that we're each other's weakness? Or how badly we've messed each other up, huh?"

"That's bullshit," comes Sam's knee-jerk response.

"Is it?" Dean asks. "So what we were doing before, that's what you wanted?"

 _No_ , Sam answers silently. Nothing about before was what he wanted.

Before. Meaning before Bells Pond. It will mark a permanent divide in Sam's life. Before his brother deemed him unworthy of the war they started and had him sent off the field deliberately.

"We were doing the best we could."

"You mean we were getting our asses kicked." Yeah, that's pretty much what Sam means. "We were killing ourselves and for what? For all those bastards to keep telling us what we were doing wrong? No thanks."

"Doesn't explain why you made the deal."

Dean sighs. "Michael said he could keep you safe, that this place was protected by another archangel. I was tired, Sam. So fucking tired. This way we both got what we wanted."

"You have no idea what I wanted!" Sam takes large steps into the living room.

"The same thing you've always wanted, Sam. You might have said differently once or twice, but I knew." Dean's voice is ragged. "I never blamed you for wanting out. We were becoming, I don't know, but we weren't brothers anymore. Nothing's been the same since I came back and I never figured out how to get us back."

"That's not true," Sam argues. "We've always been on the same side."

"Same side or not, we were losing and things were getting worse." Sam can't read any emotion in Dean's voice, words striking with a certain finality. "It's better this way. You don't have to worry about me, and you can live whatever life you want."

"Are you crazy?" Sam's gestures encompass the room. "This is no-where near any life I would choose. I belong out there."

"Just think about it, Sam," Dean cuts in. "The _end of the world_ isn't Michael's thing. He doesn't want more people to die, or some angelic final solution. It might take a while, but we can get Lucifer back in his prison and keep him there. The seals had to be broken to get him out and they need to be replaced to lock him away. Same cage, same rules.

"With Michael's help, I can do that. It shouldn't be our fight—we didn't sign up for this. I didn't write my name down, you never volunteered for the yellow-eyed demon to make you a vessel, but this is how we finish it."

"And you couldn't talk to me?"

"I beat you to the punch. There was something in the way you looked at me... There's a reason you left over and over. Now, it's on me."

"You don't get to be a martyr."

"Technically—"

"No." Sam points as if the tip of his finger is the only thing keeping Dean on the other side of the room. Any closer and Sam would hit him, free-shot or no. "You don't get to pretend you're doing the right thing."

"You wanted a normal life."

Dean's fighting with bows and arrows. Useless against Sam's artillery. "Nothing about this is normal!"

Dean shrugs, playing off the hurt in Sam's voice. "Trust me, this is better than the real world."

"I wouldn't know." Sam wishes the house weren't so small; four walls have never felt so much like a prison. He has nowhere to hide, no motel room to storm out of and crawl back to. Another routine from their old life that his brother fucked up. "The Apocalypse is bigger than just you and me. However you thought this would help me, you're wrong. I need to be a part of this."

The line is so familiar. It's the second time Sam has begged Dean not to cut him out. Banished to the edge of every conflict through no choice of his own.

"I'm so sick of hearing that it's bigger than us," Dean says. "Like we never had a choice."

Sam has never been sure they had a choice. "You can keep your deal with Michael, and we'll work on the seals together." Sam hasn't begun to understand what will need to be done. "Just get me out of here and we'll finish it."

"Sorry, Sammy. It's a done deal."

The fight drains out of Sam. The anger he's tried to temper does not. If what Dean is saying is true—and God, how could it not?—locking horns won't get them anywhere. It's clear in Dean's expression that he's done trying to make Sam understand. There are a thousand questions left unanswered but Sam has no idea where to begin.

He's not sure how much time passes in their silent stand-off. Shadows slide gradually across the floor, reaching to Sam's feet.

"Why'd you come here?" Sam asks without thinking minutes or hours later. "If this is said and done, then why bother showing up at all? Why not get one of the angels to tell you, 'Hey, your brother's alive but slowly going crazy?'"

"It's part of the—"

"Don't say it's part of the deal," Sam cuts him off. "Just don't."

"I don't trust anyone," Dean says. "I had to check for myself that you were okay and that Michael kept his end of the bargain. He might play a fair hand, but Michael didn't give me much to go on about where you were. The things I pictured were—"

"Were what?" Sam crosses his arms. "Awful? It wasn't any easier for me! At least you knew what was supposed to happen, but I had nothing, not even a way to know if you were even still alive, or if you thought I had gone off and said yes to Lucifer."

"I never would have thought that."

"Right," Sam snaps. "Because saying yes is clearly not something you would have considered. Oh, wait."

"Sam—"

"I'm the one that got shafted in this deal."

"I've been having dreams all year," Dean says unexpectedly, his entire body shrinking back into the sofa cushions. "At first, I thought it was Lucifer or one of the other really douchey angels fucking with me, but Michael said that was impossible. He's the gatekeeper to my head, I guess. No one goes in without him knowing. But it was all me, dreaming about you and getting a front row seat as Lucifer tore into you. I had to watch as he hunted you down, protected or not, and I couldn't wake up."

"Even if he'd found me, I wouldn't say yes."

"Try telling that to my subconscious," Dean says. "I dreamed some fucked-up shit. I thought everything Michael told me was crap."

Sam says nothing. His own dreams come to mind, the way Lucifer exploits his only avenue of persuasion. Telling Dean about the dreams may give him the final piece he needs to justify his choice. A psychic connection to Public Enemy Number One would be more ammunition.

"I only get a day."

Sam looks over. "To do what?"

"To make sure you're alright," he answers. "That was the bargain."

 _Every year. Every year. Years._

The shock is enough to crowd Sam out of the room. Wisely, Dean stays put.

With enough distance, Sam regains control of himself. It's easier to pretend for a moment that Dean's not there, to return to the monotony he's used to away from his brother's revelations. Alone, Sam would fall back on his routine. That's tempting, but Dean's presence is tangible throughout the house, impossible to ignore.

Sam aches for a distraction. In the kitchen, he finds the can of soup he was planning to open for lunch. Close enough. He adds enough water to make two full portions and sets the soup to simmer on the stove. Water droplets hiss and crackle as they slide down the sides of the pot and hit the burner. Pouring half into a bowl, he leaves the rest on the cooling burner. The broth is too watered down and the chicken stringy. Sam has a feeling even prime rib would taste like mud.

After forty-five minutes of uneasy silence, Dean walks into the kitchen and sees the leftovers. Without asking, he takes the cooled pot and the spoon Sam left, propping himself against the counter.

"Mind if I look around?" Dean eventually asks. His voice is carefully casual.

"You bought it."

Dean's face twists unattractively then recovers. "How about the grand tour?"

Classic Dean. Ignore the big issues and harp on the little things. "Can't you give yourself the tour?"

"I might get lost."

Sam laughs before he can tell his mouth to hold it in. Not even Dean is talented enough to get lost in Sam's six-room prison, but his pathetic stare won't let up so Sam nods. And as he leads his brother around, Sam keeps his senses alert for any clue—anything Dean says or does—that could give him a way out of Bells Pond.

Dean may say it's written in stone, but Sam's no one if not a Winchester. Even stone has a weakness.

The lemonade Riley left in Sam's fridge a few days ago is too sour, puckering Sam's cheeks before he swallows. But it's cold and Dean doesn't comment on the tartness. They ended the tour on Sam's front steps, the late afternoon sun surprisingly warm. It's one of the nicest days Sam's had; he refuses to consider why.

Sam gained nothing from the tour beyond a greater understanding of how Michael planned to avert the Apocalypse. Dean had spoken haltingly, a lifeless repetition of facts.

Apparently, Michael wasn't keen on bringing about the end of humanity unlike Zachariah and his goons. By possessing Dean, Michael could kill Lucifer and end the war decisively but with casualties in the millions. If Lucifer managed to get his hands on Sam, it meant Sam's death as well and, for Dean, that option was off the table entirely.

Beyond what any human knew—or, for that matter, most angels—there was another way. Breaking sixty-six seals had been good enough to spring Lucifer out of the basement, but they could be replaced. New seals fashioned over the old to send the Devil back to Hell.

Michael's plan had one essential ingredient. His vessel.

On any other day, in any other town, Sam might approve. Michael's proposal had all the elegance of a plan they'd searched for since the Big Bad Voodoo Daddy got loose. Sam would give almost anything to bind Lucifer back to the Pit and keep him there.

He won't give his brother.

They may be two very different men, but the Winchester brothers only need one answer when the other is threatened.

"Are you seeing anybody?"

Sam turns. "Excuse me?"

Dean swishes the ice around in his glass. "You know, have you met anyone around here?"

"Tell me you're kidding," Sam groans. He expects a playful nudge or tease but they haven't been that comfortable in a long time.

"Nothing, huh?" Dean leans forward, elbows to knees. "That's gotta be rough," he jokes as if Sam's bantering right back instead of listening awkwardly. "Hope they at least gave you something to help with that."

"Yeah, Dean. Sure." What else can he say? Apparently his brotherly interest in Sam's sex life can't be stopped by insignificant things like the Apocalypse. Right. Dean's making a stab at normal; Sam can't quite get there.

Sensing he's been brushed off, Dean stares out at the road and the water tower punctuating the horizon. Sam wonders about Michael, examining Dean's blunt profile for... he's not too sure. A change, one tiny detail out of place that Sam can pick out instantly. Not for the first time today, Dean's eyes are distant, drawn far out into the world beyond Bells Pond.

"Is he with you all the time?"

"Hmm?" Dean angles towards Sam, bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

"Michael."

"You know I don't like living with strangers, Sam." Dean refocuses in the here-and-now and Sam's satisfied they don't have an angelic chaperon, at least.

"I'm sorry."

The soft apology comes after another long silence. Sam had started to think they were done with words. They'd moved inside as the air started to cool, sitting in the living room.

"Dean—"

"For the deal, everything." He doesn't look over. "That there wasn't another way, and I just want you to—"

Sam knows where he's leading. "There's nothing you can say—nothing I _want_ you to say."

"I know that," Dean admits. "It's too soon, I get it. I'd be pissed at me."

"You didn't trust me enough to talk to me which, I guess, I understand. The way things were going..." Sam trails off. Trust had been a sparse commodity even before Bells Pond.

"I did trust you," Dean offers, but Sam shakes his head.

"We were too..." Sam searches for the right term and realizes it hasn't been coined yet.

Dean understands without it. "Yeah."

A thought occurs to Sam. "Did Bobby know what you were planning?"

"Nah, Michael and I did this on our own. But he knows now."

"What'd he say?"

"He called me something much worse than an idjit." Dean laughs. "We didn't talk for a while. He even tried to find a way to break my deal with Michael, but that's one thing about angels. Way fewer loopholes than dealing with demons. Then, when I told Bobby about you, he wanted to start searching. I'd leave and he'd try tracking you down, but angelic omens are harder to track than the demonic ones, and I think he gave up a few months ago."

"Nice to know someone wanted me around," Sam says.

There's a fissure in Dean's eyes. He thinks better of arguing. Harsh words have been their deadliest weapons over the years, but Sam—literally banished and forsaken—can't regret his jab.

As the day winds to dusk, Sam's drained. He's reluctant to fall asleep, afraid to let Dean out of his sight. Though it's tempting, he can't tie Dean to the furniture. The only way to sweep aside the silence is with small talk, meaningless back-and-forth that Sam has trouble remembering seconds after the words leave his mouth.

When the sun finally settles below the horizon, they're on opposite sides of the house. Sam lets Dean grab whatever he wants from the fridge and pantry while he stretches out on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table where he's worn a groove in the wood top.

 _One day._

As much as the time's dragged, one day will never be enough.

March 29th

The next time Sam opens his eyes, he finds Dean standing quietly in the kitchen and the sun peeking over the horizon. Re-situating himself on the lumpy couch, Sam's bones creak and pop—he'd gotten used to the bed. Dean's expression hasn't changed, his morose gaze fixed on Sam. Whatever détente they'd found yesterday seems to have slipped away overnight, leaving the frigid distance between them.

"I tried to imagine where they sent you."

"Does the dreariness live up to your expectations?" Sam asks around a yawn.

"This doesn't seem dreary," Dean assesses, eyes drawn out past Sam's rotting fence. "Sleepy, though. Yeah, I like it."

Sam pictures what Dean is seeing. Beyond the fence lies the road, set down in the middle of the fields with dull grass grown up around it like maze walls. The water tower, rusted and leaning slightly to the left, is the highest structure for miles around. There's nothing else, just brown fields that have yet to find the new growth of spring, oceans of grass insulating Sam from the rest of the world.

He sits down at his small table and sighs. "There's nothing to like."

"Sam—"

"Don't." Idly, Sam's fingers trace the grain of the wood. He could tell Dean that he's spent three hundred and sixty five days questioning everything in Bells Pond. He's looked for the flaws in everyday patterns, scoured for something as small and insignificant as a blade of grass bending the wrong way—a hole he could use to pull the entire illusion apart. Inadequate words to make Dean understand what kind of prison the angels have built, their own little angelic safety deposit box. Dusty, lonely, and far too quiet. "This is punishment."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Sam asks softly. "The angels wanted me out of the picture and they used you to do it. Your deal—"

"I made the deal with Michael, no one else." Dean steps tentatively towards the table, easy like Sam might jump and up-end the furniture. "I trusted him to keep his word and, you know what? He _did_."

"I get it," Sam says, aware of his own petulance. "You trusted him over me. Part of you probably wanted me gone too."

The hard angles of Dean's face tighten, a reflection of how uncomfortable they are. Being open with each other has never been easy, damn near impossible since Dean was resurrected. One secret blanketing another until there were too many layers to muddle through.

Dean's fingers dig half-moons into the old wood of Sam's chair. "I thought it would be better—"

"Better?" Sam pushes back from the table, the chair's feet scraping angry lines on the battered floor. They're going in circles. "Fuck you. It was selfish."

"Do you even know—" Dean stops, a painful sound trapped in his chest. "It's the least selfish thing I've ever done. I could have told Michael to end it—I don't want to know any more. Send my soul on, I don't give a crap, and then he could ride my body until it was done. As long as you were safe, I didn't care. But I'm still here—still _me_ —and I'm fighting every day."

"I could fight with you."

"No, I'm giving you what I'll never have."

"And what's that?"

"Peace, Sam." It sounds like Dean's voice has been torn out of his throat and thrown at Sam.

Against that, Sam has no argument. There can be no peace; no happy ending for the Winchesters. Just the idea of peace is colorful and absurd, like bright illustrations in childrens' books that are too pretty to be real.

"I chose to keep you safe, don't you blame me for that." Dean won't stop. "I could keep going, knowing you were okay. I spent so much time worrying about you, about how broken we were—"

"Don't." Sam turns away, getting as far from Dean's voice as possible. He shuts the bedroom door to put a physical barrier between them. Dean's footsteps get closer, stopping outside.

"I don't have much time left. Would you just—Sam, can you listen for a sec?"

Sam is leaning on the wall, unable to move and unwilling to answer.

"Fine, I get it. But listen. You can move on, make something of a life here. I want you to, Sammy." Through the wood, he hears Dean sigh. "It might not be perfect, but it's better than what's out there."

"It's not real."

"You can _make_ it real," Dean insists.

Sam waits for the rest but those are the last words he hears. Checking his bedside clock, Sam gasps. It's already 8:15.

He opens the door, hurrying down the hallway and sliding into the empty living room.

Dean's already gone.

March 21st

"Morning, Sam."

Eric's stool is the third from the left, an easy reach to the sugar and the Tabasco.

"You're a little early. Coffee's not ready yet."

"Yeah, well, the door wasn't locked," Eric grumbles as he takes his seat. The skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkle and stretch as Eric rubs his face.

Sam separates the ones from the fives, checking the cash drawer. It's pointless—Sam may as well be using Monopoly money—but it's a ritual. If not for Sam's comfort, then for Eric and the rest to have a slice of normalcy.

"It's never locked, you know that."

"That's because you never leave."

Fair enough. Sam's been at the diner every day for the better part of a year. Since Dean disappeared and Sam spent his rage on his front door, on his cabinets and furniture, laying waste to everything that wasn't nailed down. Alone once more in that house—even emptier without Dean—Sam had seethed for days in a hell of his own making. He'd thrashed and fought, called the Wanderer to his doorstep only to rail against the angel with cruel words.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Sam pours the coffee as soon as it's done, steam rising up from the mug to curl around Eric's jaw. Eric blinks; his eyelids lag on the way back up, making his answer moot. "Or is it still pretty bad?"

"Don't try telling me you slept well when you first got here."

"Yeah," Sam chuckles, ducking his head. "No."

"It's too quiet, you know?"

Sam knows. Motels were never the quietest places to grab a few hours of sleep, and he had Dean's rustling and steady breathing, but here the silence is so thorough, it's oppressive. Noiseless, dead air weighing on Sam's ears—there were so many nights he didn't even bother trying to fall asleep.

"Riley's not here yet," Sam offers. "But I was going to make toast. Want some?"

"Nah, coffee's fine for now." Eric pulls out a tattered paperback, its thin, soft-edged pages the color of driftwood. Sam has a box of books in similar condition at his house, likely left by the angels to help with the boredom. "You know, I never had time to sit and read when I was on the force. Figured my spare time was better spent sleeping. I guess I should thank whoever left me here for that."

Sam turns around, waits for his toast to pop up and hears Eric flipping through the worn pages.

A year ago, it was Gus who had finally stepped through the wreckage Sam had surrounded himself with, unmindful that the splinters had once been his hard work, and found Sam crouched over an envelope. Sam's knuckles were bloody and torn but he'd grimaced through the pain, holding the creased, brown envelope tight to his chest while he'd listened to Gus.

Out of everyone unceremoniously dropped into Bells Pond, Gus was clearly the most well adjusted. Sam had learned enough from his rounds at tragedy to see behind the handyman's disposition. Gus hid his pain well, but Sam knew his split-second hesitations, temporary surrenders to old, painful memories. His eyes would drift away from Sam's, a sojourn to the past, before returning with a smile that erased all concern. Gus was here for a reason but he played content whereas the others demonstrated their displeasure.

And Gus wanted to make a life here. That's what he'd whispered to Sam that day, speaking quietly between Sam's shaky breaths.

Bells Pond was theirs, Gus had said. It belonged to Sam and Riley, even to those who were too timid to venture out. No reason they all shouldn't live in it. Sam hadn't said a thing then; he'd used up every word with Dean and he only had one focus. Every fiber tasked with holding Sam Winchester together, hanging on tight for the next rage. Gus had left and Sam had sat motionless as the shadows blended with twilight then reformed when the sun came up.

After he'd sat for so long, it was almost easier to stay that way. Sam had stared at the floor and his life stared back, spilled from the envelope Dean left behind. Pictures, the few mementos left from better days, and a brief note from Dean.

>  **Thought these were safer with you.**

  
The old photographs were more like artifacts, carefully preserved and priceless to only a few. Dean had carried them mile after mile for years, now they'd been entrusted to Sam. Made Sam wish for his brother to reappear so he could clock him one right on the nose.

Long past starving on the second day, Sam had finally moved, crawling into the kitchen where two glasses remained set out on the table, left by ghosts.

"Sorry I'm late!" Riley breezes through the door with a full load, her backpack swinging off her shoulder.

"Sam was about to go looking," Eric says, leaning across the counter to refill his own coffee. "He was scared he'd have to cook for himself."

Dropping her things into a booth, she laughs. "Sam can cook. I've seen him."

"She's lying," Sam points out, scraping butter onto his last triangle of toast. "Eggs and toast are my limit."

In the diner, the kitchen is Riley's domain. She knots her springy curls back into a ponytail and walks through the bat-wing doors, appearing on the other side through the wide serving window. "Looks like everything's here. You guys want pancakes? I think we have blueberries, how about that?"

Sam declines. Eric holds up two fingers. "I ate like shit for years—whatever came in a box or a bag, and only if it could be frozen or microwaved." He stirs sugar into his second cup of coffee. "If Riley's cooking, I want a double order."

He goes back to his book, undisturbed by the clatter and humming coming from the kitchen. Sam glances between them and marvels at his strange little life.

This is what Gus had wanted: a slice of normal amongst the chaos and confusion. He'd come back to Sam's with Riley in tow as his brand new accomplice. Together they'd convinced Sam that rebuilding Bells Pond was better than long days of desolation stuck in their fake homes. Sam had almost laughed them out of the house—didn't they know they were nothing more than pieces stuck in this angelic safety deposit box? It wasn't supposed to be a normal life.

He'd agreed regardless, half to get them out of his sight. Another part of Sam had begun to make itself heard, arguing that Sam had a chance, free of the mantle of Winchester, to do what he wanted.

"Why do you want my help?" he'd asked, Gus already talking about fixing the diner up first.

"Well, for one, you ain't shy."

"I think you're easy to get along with," had been Riley's explanation, a little rhetorical since Sam Winchester was still a mystery to them both. "It's not right for people to shut themselves away. Maybe we can help them."

Sam wasn't doing it to help anyone, that selfish little voice had popped up. But it was something different—a way to keep from thinking.

"I figure someone's been givin' us supplies," Gus had casually cut into Sam's thoughts, his tone saying he knew who that someone was. "Should be able to get us some building supplies too, don't you think?"

Sam hadn't added that he thought the angels' generosity was limited. But Gus had gotten what he needed, leaving notes and lists, orders mysteriously filled in a few days. They'd all dealt with food restocking itself; timber and tools showing up outside the diner hadn't been that big of a deal. Apparently Heaven was plenty generous when Sam wasn't the one asking.

It had taken Sam a while to really join in on Gus' projects. He'd walked, trapped in his own head, along the same roads he had for the previous year, with the new knowledge that what he saw might very well have been a trick. The horizon—was it just an illusion? A cleverly painted canvas? This eerie and desolate town, emptied after an unnatural tragedy, sat in a protective shell. How much of it had been what Sam wanted to see? Angels and their fucking head-games.

"Sure you don't want any?"

Riley's smiling at him, Eric's stuffing a forkful of fluffy pancakes in his mouth, dark purple juice caught at the corner.

"Eees r'eeally good."

"Dude," Sam laughs. "Swallow before you choke."

Eric's cheeks flash bright red and he ducks his face away to finish chewing. Their mornings have been this shade of normal for a few months. Gus had logged a lot of hours sweating over the diner's repairs. Sam too, after replaying his day with Dean had become stale. New doors, new timber—a miracle job from a construction standpoint—and the diner now stands in decent shape. They had appliances only Riley could tame along with little details Sam had perfected from his cross-country tour of dive restaurants and quaint diners. This place falls in the middle: no frills, just a simple place to gather where they can stake a claim on a booth or mingle at the counter. Cleaned up, the Bells Pond Diner passes for normal if you aren't looking too carefully.

The door swings open again. This time, a young man and woman step inside, his skinny, stooped frame dwarfing hers. There's no smile on the man's face, his eyes turned low and away from Sam and the others; the woman sends them a shy-fingered wave and they both shuffle to one of the booths.

"You guys want some pancakes?" Riley's first to speak up, calling out from the kitchen. The girl nods and elbows the man who then dips his head almost imperceptibly.

Anthony, now picking at the table with his thumbnail, barely looks older than twenty. Sam has no idea how old he really is. Unfortunately pocked cheeks, sandy hair flopped down for his eyes to hide behind—Anthony is one of the tough cases Gus is so intent on helping. He's been in Bells Pond longer than Sam and it's tough to miss the unease that lurks around him. Whatever trauma Anthony faced in his old life, it came with him to Bells Pond.

Riley drops off two plates, bustling back and forth to bring them both coffee. Splotches of batter stain her shirt and a few curls have already worked loose, bouncing around her face. She loves this, Sam can tell. Cooking and serving, not a real job but something that gives her purpose anyway; she's come a long way from mangling her mother's recipes and sharing the less disastrous results with Sam.

The girl across from Anthony smiles, elbows forward on the table and ready to dig in. Her cheeks, cherry from the walk to the diner, round in response to something Riley says.

Sara is their newest arrival. Only twenty-two, her last memory before Bells Pond was of a fire in her college dorm before she'd blacked out. Skittish at first, she's gradually become more comfortable with the rest of them. Adjusted would be the wrong word to use. There's no way for anyone to truly adjust after being ripped out of one life and inexplicably dropped in Nebraska.

Strangely, her appearance has helped Anthony widen his circle. Though Gus swears he's never heard the guy speak more than two words, Anthony talks to Sara. Sam's pretty sure it's because Sara is one of the least physically threatening women he's ever seen; she barely clears five feet and is usually blushing. Reddish-brown hair pulled back into a swinging ponytail, swishing as she walks. When she smiles at Anthony, he doesn't avert his eyes.

The five of them coexist in the morning. With no one else to feed, Riley sets up shop in the kitchen, organizing what they've got and wreaking havoc with her new supplies. In the corner booth, Sara talks while Anthony tilts his ear towards her. Sam and Eric stay at the counter, the sound of a page flipping every few minutes not really bothering Sam.

If such a thing is possible in Bells Pond, Eric Tanner has been a godsend. He'd showed up on Sam's doorstep seven months back, surprising the hell out of Sam. In a mirror of Sam's first meeting with Riley, Eric had been confused, but not inconsolable, knowing that something beyond the realm of normal human comprehension had happened. Eric had dedicated his life to public service, rising through the ranks of the Sacramento Police Department to become a detective. There wasn't a lot he hadn't seen on the job, but over Riley's breakfasts and lunches, he'd told Sam that the things he'd witnessed before he woke up in Bells Pond would have driven any man to the edge of madness. Half the city had gone crazy and the other half went mad trying to defend themselves. And the officers in the middle had done their best to keep it together until the city had been lost.

Eric sets his mug down, pushes his syrup-sticky plate away from his chest. "Are you staying around here all day?"

"Gus asked for help working on one of the buildings in town," Sam says, dividing the last of the coffee between them. "If I stay here, Riley might rope me into wearing an apron or something."

"Might be a good look for you," Eric teases with a hint of a smile. Sam's objective enough to admit he's a good-looking guy, though he's probably half a foot shorter than Sam. Eric had obviously kept in shape on the Sacramento force with his lean, toned body and narrow waist. He had short brown hair, deeply-set blue eyes over his straight nose, and laugh lines etched on his chiseled face. "Plus, you'd get to eat whatever she's making."

"Only if you're lucky." Riley's head pops up over the service bar, distinctly gopher-like. "But if you guys want to go and help Gus, I'll make lunch."

Sam and Eric end up with sandwiches thicker than dictionaries and pickles sliced into long, thin wedges. No one has a functioning vehicle so they walk into town, the dull sound of hammering leading them to Gus. All three of them put in an afternoon of hard work on what used to be a small bookshop—their future library in Gus's mind.

By the time they're finished for the day, Sam's stomach is growling and the men walk congenially back to the diner to see what Riley's left them for dinner.

March 28th

Sam wakes up and looks at the calendar pinned to his bedroom wall with a rusted nail. It's two decades old with faded photographs of ducks on every page. Once he'd worked out leap years, it was enough for Sam to keep track of the days since Dean left.

He's had the 28th circled for months. Seeing the red pen strokes around today's date is the impetus for Sam to get out of bed earlier than normal, taking extra-long glances outside as he's moving through the house. He's partially convinced that Dean won't show up and that everything Dean had promised last year would fall apart. But at quarter past eight, Sam hears heavy, thudding bootsteps coming up onto his porch and the steady knocking a few seconds later. In a heartbeat, Sam's up, opening the door before Dean's fist drops. Neither one of them smiles.

"I didn't think you were coming," Sam says inadequately. Dean doesn't look good, that's for sure. The same features masked with such obvious weariness, face tensed for another explosion from Sam.

"It's part of the deal," Dean answers. "Look, if you want me to go, I can. I can just, I don't know, wander."

Sam speaks up before Dean can shift to turn around. "Shut up and come in."

As they had one year ago, Sam and Dean face each other in the hallway, eyes tracking up and down to catalog any differences they discern. Dean is satisfied first. "I'd ask how you were doing, but—"

"But you don't really have any right to know."

"Is that what you really think, Sam? I think I have every right."

"Why? Just because this entire thing was your idea?"

Dean's mouth opens and snaps shut. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. "Nevermind, I don't want to do this again."

Honestly, Sam doesn't either. The memory of their last day together stings. Dean is here, alive, and Sam already knows this isn't the day he's going to be rescued in grand fashion. One look at Dean's face tells him the Apocalypse hasn't been averted yet and Bells Pond will remain Sam's home.

"Alright." Sam turns and walks away, into the kitchen where his bag's already packed.

"You heading somewhere?" Dean asks from the doorway.

"I thought if you weren't coming..."

"Right."

Sam had actually packed it to take to the diner in case he spent another long day away from the house. Yesterday, he and Eric had helped Gus until the sun started to set, air getting chilly, before all three of them went their separate ways. With Dean here again, the house starts to feel claustrophobic as if someone's turning a crank and pushing the walls together. Apparently, Dean doesn't notice a thing.

"Listen, do you want to take a walk?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "To where?"

"I wasn't planning on making breakfast here, and I'm hungry." Sam's cooking doesn't measure up to Riley's. Dean has no idea Riley even exists. "There's a diner."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, it's been like a project. Anyway, we could walk there. Believe me, it'll be better than anything I can cook."

"Sure, if that's what you want."

There's not a single hint of resistance from Dean. They're both quiet along the way, Sam focusing more on his footsteps than the scenery. Dean looks every-which-way but never comments on what he sees; Sam wouldn't know what to say. They barely made it out of the house last year. With Dean walking beside him, it's a new world.

The diner is surprisingly empty, unlocked as usual. Dean lags a few steps behind, hunter's instincts kicking in. "It's fine, man. I promise." Sam denies that he's waiting for Dean's reaction. He busies himself flipping on the lights, seeing if whoever was here last—most likely Gus and Riley—left a note or dirty dishes. Finding nothing, Sam stands at the register and watches Dean's expression.

When he and Gus were fixing up the place, Sam had pictured all those diners he'd set foot in from toddler to teenager and beyond. There had always been something not quite right about the Bells Pond Diner when he compared it to other road joints. Seeing Dean standing on the linoleum, Sam gets what was missing.

"This was a project?" He sounds less than impressed.

"Did you expect me to stay in the house like a good, obedient little brother?"

"Shit, Sam. That's not what I meant," Dean says. "You never mentioned this place was here."

"It was the first place we decided to repair." Sam's eyes don't leave Dean as he strolls between the counter and the booths, fingers skimming over fake leather seats and Formica.

"We?"

"I thought you knew I wasn't the only one here."

"Michael mentioned there were others," Dean points out. "He doesn't have anything to do with them, in case you were thinking that he might."

"Oh." Sam hadn't thought of that. Clearly with the never ending parade of angels through the Winchester's revolving door, there were plenty of feathered fiends out there. "I think there's thirteen of us now."

Dean looks relieved. "I figured you'd tell me about the others sometime. Last year, did you know any of them?"

"Just two," Sam says as Dean comes back to the counter and takes Eric's seat. It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to tell him to move. "Riley and Gus. Maybe you'll meet them."

Dean nods and leans forward on the counter. On the wall behind the register, his eyes hit a snag. "Is that—?"

"Oh, yeah." The calendars Sam had gotten were largely water fowl-themed. Riley, to her delight, had cat calendars she'd proudly hung in her living room. In Eric's box, there'd been glossy-paged calendars with classic cars. The slicked-up black Impala had been January's showpiece until Sam carefully ripped out the page and tacked it to the diner wall. "I guess I thought this place could use some personality."

"Nice choice." A small, genuine smile tugs at Dean's lips. "Seems like a good place. Does it magically serve food?"

"We're not special enough for the angels to provide buckets of beer and platters of burgers at every turn," Sam jibes. "But they give us the supplies we need, most of the time, and that's where Riley comes in."

"Sounds like I need to meet this—" The door opens and cuts Dean off, a bright rectangle of sunlight pouring onto the linoleum floor. Riley parades through with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head to hold back her windblown hair.

"Oh my gosh, Sam. You're not going to believe what I dreamed about last night. Eric and I were—oh!" She finally notices Dean when he turns on the stool. "Hey, I don't—are you new?"

"New? To what—you mean, here?" Dean cranes to look back at Sam.

"Sorry." Sam steps around the counter. "No, he's not new. Riley, this is Dean." He leaves out that they're brothers, Dean shooting him a glance but saying nothing. "And this is Riley, who's been providing us poor souls with sustenance."

The handshake is a little awkward on Riley's part. She's exceptional and compassionate with new residents, but they're not usually dropped in her lap like this. Flustered, she starts talking a mile-a-minute. "Well, welcome, I suppose! I'm usually here earlier than this, but it's not as if Sam can fire me for being late, you know?"

"You're the boss?" Dean asks skeptically.

"No." Sam's quick to deny. "I'm just always here."

"And he makes sure things work right," Riley chirps, making her way to the kitchen as Dean's eyes follow. "This place was a mess. I used to walk by and wonder if it could be salvaged, but Sam here, he did a great job." She decides Dean's appearance is a special occasion and starts throwing together a full breakfast, delicious smells wafting out into the diner after a few minutes.

Sam can't pin down Dean's expression. There's a sort of calm about him, mouth relaxed and shoulders loose. He belongs in a diner like this. Riley sets overflowing plates down on the counter for all three of them.

"I hope a few others show up," Riley says between swallows of her English muffin. "I made enough scrambled eggs for the whole town. Probably enough bacon too."

Eventually, Sam and Dean move to a booth, taking full mugs of coffee with them. Riley's scurrying between the kitchen and the opposite end of the diner where Anthony and Sara are seated across from Gus. Sam had narrated as each person came in and sat down, giving Dean the run-down on their stories. Anthony had given them a wide berth—Dean was an unfamiliar face—but Gus had smiled, toothy and honest.

"He's the one who started the rebuilding," Sam explains, watching steam curl up from the hot surface of his coffee. Dean slurps, elbows wide on the table. His leather jacket's tossed over the seat, sunlight picking up the fine hairs on Dean's forearms. "He's never said what happened to him before he got here, but it was something awful."

"God likes carpenters." Dean remarks as a random aside. "Tinkering with their hands, able to look at a whole and see the pieces. That might be why he's here."

Sam has poured their third cups of coffee when Gus leads Anthony and Sara out of the diner. "Gonna get 'em to help me with cleaning out the library." Sara looks delighted to assist; Anthony less so. That leaves Riley tinkering about in the kitchen.

"A library, huh?"

"Maybe," Sam offers. "We all got stashed with a few boxes of books, figured it was the easiest way to share. Plus I think Gus likes having projects and getting people out of their houses. It can get pretty lonely." He doesn't mean for it to sound so wretched but Dean glances over anyway.

They ease into silence for a while, reminding Sam of the times they would sit in diners, one of them busy with research and the other coming up with a battle plan. There's one case now, the only hunt that really matters, but Sam can't ask.

A little after noon, Riley leaves with a basket full of food. Off to make her rounds of the houses nearby, taking homemade food to those who aren't up to leaving, she waves and gives them a smile.

Dean watches until her shadow disappears down the road, arching an eyebrow speculatively. "So, you and Riley, huh?"

"Come on, Dean. She's been great—"

"How great?" Dean smirks.

"You know what? I'm not going to tell you anything," Sam says.

"Just a simple question, Sammy. You seem better this year."

"I'm not saying a word." Sam goes back to concentrating on the cream swirling in his coffee. Dean keeps watching as if he'll get answers that way instead.

"It's not very busy around here."

"There's only thirteen of us," Sam sighs. "It's never busy."

"This reminds me of Montana," Dean starts. "That diner we sat in for hours waiting for Dad to get back, and that waitress who kept bringing you food even though we were out of money."

"I guess." As he says it, Dean's smile dims.

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know." Sam fiddles with the handle on his mug, thumbs the chip in the pottery. "Do you want anything else?"

There's a clock hanging on a nail over the door, yellowed face and black arms. Always there but meaningless—no one in Bells Pond has anywhere else to be. Sam watches now, its hands separating from the zenith as it continues its countdown. Suddenly, time _means_ something.

"Hey." Dean knocks his elbow. "Don't watch the clock. They're not getting me back until the last second." He's oddly vehement as if he can fight to stay instead of getting whisked away by his angelic handlers. As much as Sam wants to leave Bells Pond, he guesses Dean wouldn't mind staying.

Last year, after his initial breakdown, Sam had come to regret spending a solid twenty-four hours fighting with Dean and never getting the chance to say how much he'd missed him. Sam wasn't happy in Bells Pond, and he hadn't exactly been happy during the last year he'd spent with Dean, but their lives were inexorably knitted together. Tearing them apart had left wounds and ragged edges gone untended.

When Sam had let himself think about all the whys Dean had never said, he'd come up with dangerous comparisons. Lucifer, banished to Hell for disobedience. For walking a different path than his brothers, though with the same aim—honoring God. Sam, banished to Nebraska for his own safety so that his brother could continue on the right path.

It was never an enjoyable train of thought.

On the way back to the house, Dean speaks up.

"You haven't asked yet."

"About?"

"About how it's going." No need to ask what Dean's referring to.

"I guess that means you want to tell me." Sam's boots scuff on the road, leaving obvious tracks in the dirt. Dean doesn't talk again until the crossroads are behind them.

"We're doing alright." He's got his hands in his jacket pockets, stretching the leather out at his sides.

"Just alright?"

"It's not like things are easy," Dean teases. "If it was supposed to be easy, they'd call it a _dilemma_ instead of an apocalypse."

"How many seals have been taken care of?"

"Seventeen. That was the count before I came to the dark side of the moon."

"Run into any big problems?"

"The demons know what we're doing and they're starting to get creative," Dean says. 'About a week ago, they'd found a way to raise every spirit in an entire cemetery to send after us. That got pretty interesting, but spirits versus angels isn't a fair fight."

"I'm glad you're okay," Sam admits.

Sam gives the sentiment a chance to settle as they walk. By the time they're back at the house, their jackets are off and the breeze blows warm over their necks and arms.

"You never got the truck up and running, huh?"

Sometimes Sam forgets about the old Ford. Dean saw it last year and commented; Sam hadn't paid attention. "Gus doesn't do cars, but he took a look."

"Nothing?" Dean pauses next to the cement pillars of the garage overhang. "Didn't I teach you anything?"

"It needs more than an oil change, Dean."

"We'll see."

Sam can't deny Dean the opportunity to dig inside the truck's rusty guts. It's perfectly natural to see Dean rolling up his sleeves with a new eagerness in his eyes. _He knows this_.

"Hey, Sam. Any chance of getting a beer?"

"The angels don't let us have alcohol." Totally worth the fib to see the stricken look on Dean's face. "Dude, I'm kidding. I'll see what I've got." Truthfully, there's been a six pack in the fridge for over a year. He'll take a bottle and it'll be replaced by the next morning. It'd be dangerous if Sam ever needed to get really hammered. Beers in hand, he heads back out to find Dean already under the Ford's hood.

"It's not as bad as it could be."

"Which means it's worse than you thought. Gonna be able to fix it?" Having the truck would be unthinkably great. "You don't have to."

Dean kicks to the left and knocks the metal storage trunk. "You don't have everything I need in there but I can get this started and leave you notes on how to finish if you can get the parts." Wiping his arm across his forehead, Dean leaves a smear of grease on his temple. Sam's mouth goes dry and he takes a long swallow from his bottle. "Bet it'd be nice to get it running, no more long walks."

"I've never liked long walks." Sam grins. "Not here, anyway."

"I could ask Michael if he'll get you a car or truck that works."

Not one for Michael's charity, Sam shakes his head.

"What about the Impala?"

"What?" Sam looks over in shock. "No, Dean. I don't want your car."

"Our car."

"No way," Sam repeats. "The Impala is yours. You can't leave her here." And Sam wouldn't be able to handle having it. She and Dean practically beat with the same heart. Certainly the same soul. Giving her away, even to Sam, is akin to a suicide note.

"Suit yourself," Dean mutters, looking relieved anyway.

Drinking beers on an early spring afternoon, discussing car repairs, they make a strange picture in that it must look so normal. Dean points something out in the engine and Sam half-listens; Dean notices and resigns himself to writing things down later.

The longer Dean spends in Bells Pond, the more he relaxes. Carefully treading around trigger subjects, their conversation flows the way it used to. Long comfortable silences giving one another time with their thoughts; childish, brotherly taunts remind Sam of less complicated days. The Dean he's looking at—the man buried elbows-deep in the rust bucket's engine—seems familiar. Sam hasn't seen this man in years, only a facade that never came close. He's seeing the Dean who came for him at Stanford and did his damnedest to make them brothers again. Funny that here is where he'd choose to reappear.

It makes things difficult. As Dean's little brother, Sam's admiration and love had never truly gone away, but Sam had always wanted more from _this_ Dean. That had been pushed aside when Dean sold his soul and Sam struggled with the magnitude of his sacrifice. Beyond that—well, too much had happened to mar any illusions Sam still harbored.

"Grab me that wrench, will ya?"

Sam levers off the back steps and slaps the tool into Dean's greasy, outstretched hand.

"Now come and take a look at this..."

They don't go back to the diner. Sam offers but Dean chooses to stay at the house even if it means they join forces to make dinner. Secretly, Sam doesn't mind; he feels closer to Dean than he did last year. Staying physically close and keeping Dean to himself—no doubt Riley has been spreading the word—is Sam's way of demonstrating that.

"Here's to the day." Dean toasts when they crowd at Sam's little table for their baked chicken and cheese sandwiches on sliced white bread.

"You're telling me you had a good time?" Sam clinks their bottles together.

"I'm easy to please, Sammy."

It turns out Sam's easily pleased too. He forgets to worry while they eat, talking about the truck, listening to a few random tales from Dean's solo days. Regular hunts have taken a backseat to the seals, but he's still traveling, admitting readily that his partners don't measure up to Sam.

"I never get a moment alone," Dean grumbles, pushing back his plate and patting his stomach. "I thought Cas was bad, but Michael jumps in with, like, no warning. I could be—" He makes a crude gesture. "And _bam_! I've got a visitor in my freakin' head."

Moments like this hit Sam significantly, start to burn deep within his heart. Reminders of how different and supernatural Dean's life has become.

"Not the kind of voyeuristic experience I'm going for, you know?"

"I bet that's awkward."

Dean snuffs and polishes off his current beer. Both of them have lost the edge enough to where they're comfortable, minds a little soft but not blurry. That supplies the courage for Sam's next question.

"How bad is it?"

"Being an archangel's flesh glove? It's awesome, Sammy." He looks across the table, sees that Sam's not buying what he's selling. Evidently answering requires a little blurriness; Dean grabs them each another beer. "Kinda convenient, the angel fridge. I need one of those."

"Dean—"

"I hate it, okay? They left a lot of shit out of their sales pitch, like never being alone."

"You were never really alone—you always had me."

"Not the same thing, Sam," Dean says with a twisted smile. "These guys are on a mission and I get it. I do. But they never give me a fucking break when I need it—always on the clock. That's why—" He stops like he's crossed his own line. Sam can wait him out. "That's why I like it here," Dean continues softly. "It's you, and you're not asking me to _do_ anything. I can just be here."

Simple needs—Sam sympathizes. Strip away the ghosts, the angels and demons, and the Winchesters have lived simple lives, scaling back expectations and desires. Sam's had a lot of practice with that.

"It's the best vacation I'm gonna get."

Sam laughs. "Maybe you should ask Michael to send you to the Bahamas next time." Dean stops mid-swallow and looks over. "Oh, don't tell me—"

"A freak, targeted hurricane," Dean confirms. "I guess somebody didn't like their Sandals vacation."

"Cabo, then."

"It wouldn't be the same."

After dinner they tackle Sam's dishes, getting the kitchen back to some semblance of order. Every time Sam looks at the clock, time leaps forward—he's losing the day too quickly. As they're finishing, Sam senses the world outside his windows go quiet just before it starts to rain. Big, fat drops smack the porch and roof, sealing Sam and Dean inside.

"Hope you didn't want to go anywhere," Sam jokes as the rain's tempo jumps quickly, snaps to patters like the rain game Sam recalls from elementary school.

Dean's eyes reflect the openness Sam has basked in since they came back from the diner. His stomach tightens knowing he hasn't been as forthcoming, but Dean never pressed. Sam's anxious to get certain details off of his chest.

He goes with a vague opening. "I've been having these dreams."

"I told you a long time ago that it's okay to wake up sporting wood," Dean parodies, folding down on one end of the sofa.

"God, no." Dean may have reached his sharing quota, but Sam's got momentum. "Dreams, Dean. And sometimes, wherever I am, Lucifer's there."

That gets his brother's attention. Sam witnesses the shift from _brother_ to _hunter_. "Does it happen a lot?"

"Once every couple of months. It's like he's reminding me that he's still out there."

"I guess Michael couldn't sever every connection," Dean considers. "And the rib-job from Cas doesn't hold up in dreamland. Are they bad?"

"Nothing I can't handle," he admits. "Robs me of a good night's sleep, though."

The dreams aren't the worst part. He skims over the details for Dean's benefit, but some of Lucifer's drivel has Dean shaking his head. "It's the connection, you know? He's in my head and I wake up feeling like I don't belong here."

"Sorry, but I can't get you out—"

"Not like that, Dean," Sam argues, surprised that he means it. "These are good people who were saved for some reason. I shouldn't be here, not if I've got the Devil renting space in my head." He rambles, thoughts coming before Sam can stop the flow. "If they knew what I was—what I did—they'd send me away or worse."

"You've already made this place better. I heard what Riley said." Dean stretches to curl his fingers over Sam's knee, the most significant touch they've shared in Bells Pond. "They don't give a damn about what you were or what you did."

"You're getting the chance to save the world, Dean. You can't lie to me, I know what that means to you. You can atone for what you've done—"

"You've got nothing to atone for." Dean insists. "This—" He wraps their lives in a single gesture. "This was fate. Cruel, fucked up fate that forced our hands. Angels screwing with our heads long before we knew they were out there."

Dean's contempt for the angels is surprising. Sam deflates, sagging into the cushions while the flush Dean worked up drains away.

"Sorry," Dean eventually says. "I know you hate this, and a pretty big part of me hates it too. You think I want to be fixing these seals with Cas and Michael instead of you? It's always been you and me, Sam. It always will be, even if you're not there. This isn't about redeeming myself." The next time he meets Sam's eyes, the emotion is hidden. "Did you want me to ask Cas about the dreams? He might be able to stop your dreams altogether, and that's got to be better, right?"

"No," Sam's quick to say. "No, I don't want that." Worse than dreaming about Lucifer would be cutting his dreams off completely.

Dean's answering grin is lascivious. "No, huh? Been having some special dreams, Sammy? C'mon, who are you dreaming about?"

"None of your business," Sam smiles back. He welcomes the teasing even if Dean would be horrified with an honest answer. Probably.

Dean drowns out the rain with a long, exaggerated yawn.

"Doesn't Michael ever let you sleep?"

"Sometimes." Dean leans back. "Not nearly enough."

"Get some sleep." It'll strip away even more time, but Sam can't stand to see Dean exhausted or hurting. Brotherly instincts kick in. "You can take the bed if you want. Trust me, it's better. I might grab a few hours on the couch."

"What, you don't want to share?" Dean winks. Sam's stomach jumps. "I'd argue, but a bed sounds too good."

When Dean finally stands up, it's past midnight. Sleepy conversation had kept them both going for a few hours, but Dean's head is lolling. Sam watches him disappear down the hallway towards Sam's bed. His gut tries to pipe up again but Sam hushes it. Now is not the time. Sam lingers in a half-awake state, hearing soft snores every so often and glad Dean's getting some rest.

He can't help thinking about the things Dean didn't say, so many more than the things he did. It doesn't matter, Sam heard them all anyway.

March 29th

After a short but dreamless sleep, Sam wakes up to hear music coming from the kitchen. Stretching, he realizes that his laptop's not on the coffee table. More surprising than Dean taking it without waking him up is the soft singing Sam catches, slightly out of time with the song.

Sam leans on the doorjamb into the kitchen. Dean's completely redressed except for his jacket.

"I didn't know you liked Foo Fighters."

"Is that what this is?" Dean pours a large bowl of cereal and offers the box to Sam. "Your music collection is a little disappointing."

"There's no internet here. Can you talk to the angels about that?"

"Yeah," Dean says, mushy around a mouthful of corn flakes. "'Cause your porn collection is seriously lacking."

"Is that why you took my laptop?"

"I think _my_ fake credit card paid for _your_ laptop. I don't need to call dibbs."

Sam studies Dean's meager breakfast. "It's early enough, you know. We can make it to the diner if you want."

"I'm good. Unless you want to go."

Once he's fed and dressed, Sam heads back to the kitchen. There's an envelope sitting on the counter next to the clean dishes and the notes he'd seen Dean write about the truck repairs.

"What's that?" His voice is shaky, remembering the last envelope Dean left for him.

"Nothing big. You don't have to open it now, might want to wait until I'm gone."

Of course Sam can't wait. Dean flinches when he tears open the package, dropping the contents into his palm. There, innocuous, lays something Sam can truly say he never expected to see again.

"He gave it back?" The gold on the amulet is tarnished, darker in its tiny crannies. The weight is familiar, though it's been years since Sam held it. "Don't you need it?"

"God didn't R.S.V.P. for our little seal-fixing party," Dean says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head so he doesn't have to look at Sam. "Cas said he didn't have a use for it anymore, but I couldn't—I haven't put it back on."

"You can't keep doing this to me," Sam trembles, leaning on the counter so he doesn't fall.

"I can keep it if you want, but I figured you might want it, you know?" Dean doesn't make a move to approach Sam. "It'll give you something to yell at when I'm not around."

"The pictures," Sam whispers, "and now this. Are you trying to tell me that when this is over...that you don't expect to be coming back?"

"No, Sam, that's not it," Dean says. "It'll be safe here. Even though God is being strictly hands-off, we can't let demons get their hands on it. So keep it here for that if you need a good reason."

There are other reasons, Sam knows, but he shuts up. He imagines he can hear the long hand on the clock ticking towards 8:15. "Don't go yet, please," Sam asks with a sudden desperation. "Ask Michael for more time."

Dean stands motionless before him, searching for more in Sam's eyes for the meat of what he's asking. "The year will be over before you know it, Sam. I promise."

"You can't promise that." A year is a year, there's no other way to slice it. Though he has friends, Sam'll be alone for the next three hundred and sixty four days. Suddenly he's not sure if he can hold it together that long, not when he and Dean are starting to... now that he wants Dean around.

"I'll be back, I swear, Sammy. I want—" Dean shakes his head.

He's just opening his mouth again when pure white light fills the kitchen. Hot as if the sun is rising right in front of Sam and he squeezes his eyes shut to protect them. Too bright behind his eyelids, Sam turns away. In an instant the light is gone and he's alone in the kitchen. All he can hear is the echo of Dean's final words.

>  _Sam ought to recognize the place; he has a nagging idea that he's stood here before. Crumbled stonework scattered across an untended garden. Vines and weeds have the run of the place. Every so often a blood-red rose emerges to twist amongst the vine stems._
> 
>  _"Where am I?"_
> 
>  _"You always end up here." A man Sam hadn't noticed walks from behind a statue. His face is unmistakable. "I never lied about that, Sam." Lucifer's vessel is just this side of a corpse: skin peeled and flaking in dry shingles; hair all but gone, what's left gnarled in gray clumps. But his eyes—they are sharp and alive as if the state of his vessel is no more a concern than the weather._
> 
>  _"This is a dream."_
> 
>  _"I never said you physically had to be here." Lucifer's clothes are mere rags, muted brown and filthy. All unimportant. "This is enough."_
> 
>  _"Go ahead," Sam bristles, voice echoing as if within a cavernous room, not an overgrown garden. "Do whatever you want. I'll wake up eventually and you still won't be able to find me."_
> 
>  _"Yes, your brother and mine have done their jobs admirably," Lucifer says smoothly, a complete contrast to his appearance. "How's that going, by the way? Having fun in that little town?"_
> 
>  _"How'd you—" Sam blurts before he can stop._
> 
>  _"I know how my brother works, Sam," Lucifer taunts. "Get the dangerous one out of the way to make things easier. What about your brother? Oh, that's right." His smug attitude is out of place on the deathly countenance. "Dean did the exact same thing."_
> 
>  _"You don't know what you're talking about," Sam grates between clenched teeth._
> 
>  _"Trust me on this one. This, I know well. I have no reason lie to you."_
> 
>  _"You must be desperate. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"_
> 
>  _"You don't like it?" Lucifer checks himself out, his poor vessel's face literally crumbling. "Maybe this is more your style." Not even a snap and Sam's faced with his reflection, a perfect mimicry dressed all in black, his hair slicked back and tamed._
> 
>  _"Change into whatever you want. I'll still wake up."_
> 
>  _"Picture it for a minute, Sam. You could have this. Say yes here and now and it's yours."_
> 
>  _"No." Sam stresses the word with everything in him. He wants Lucifer to feel his answer._
> 
>  _"Say yes," Lucifer continues without flinching, "and you'll be free of your brother's trap." Sam watches his mirror image's face harden. "Our brothers imprisoned you—sent you away like you were garbage. I know better, Sam. You're a prince."_
> 
>  _Out of the corner of his eye, Sam thinks he sees the foliage moving, writhing as if the slick vines are possessed and reaching for him. "Is that your best deal?"_
> 
>  _"I know how it felt." His dark twin sidles into his space; Sam's feet are poured into concrete. "I've known that pain. Banished, ignored, and held—all so big brother could get the glory. Say yes to me, Sam, and I'll find you. I'll lay the town to waste and give you back your freedom. Then you can take your revenge."_
> 
>  _Anger fills Sam, coming up from his toes and seeping in through every pore. They're familiar emotions, a lifetime's worth of arguments and harsh words between brothers. A slide show of reasons for Sam to say, "fuck it" to Dean and his plan. To Michael and the unnatural hold he must have over Dean. Dean, who betrayed Sam just like—_
> 
>  _"Think about it. This is a limited time offer." His fierce double turns and walks away, long fingers skimming over thorny vines. He leaves the anger stewing in Sam's mind._
> 
>  _Sam's feet are released and he stumbles forward, throwing out his arms to break the fall—_

  


March 2nd

Sam sits up in bed. It's dark, barely any moonlight to see by. He blinks until his eyes adjust enough to pick out his old furniture instead of the strange, tangled opulence of his dream garden. It's his fourth time waking up like this in seven days and Sam's getting used to rubbing away the momentary disorientation.

The dreams are becoming more frequent and more seductive. Lucifer's refined his argument to target Sam where he can do the most damage, but Sam is no closer to saying yes than he ever was. In the darkness, he finds resolve by remembering Dean's last visit, more enticing than any illusion the Devil can conjure.

But the dream's not easily brushed aside. Sam's bedroom is too big, vacuous space closing in around him until he wants to explode from the pressure. If Eric were here to feel Sam shaking, he'd reach across the bed for Sam's hand. One touch for Sam to know he's not alone in the cavernous darkness.

Sam could roll over and find a warm, human connection if Eric were here, but they haven't slept together since the mild fall gave way to winter's bitter chill. The recoil from Sam's dream leaves him weak, desperate for Eric's quiet presence, but that would be unfair. No matter how badly Sam wants that comfort, he likes Eric too much to betray him with false hope.

His dreams had been the catalyst to bring Sam and Eric together. It was unexpected, but they'd been keeping each other company through the spring months after Dean left, living so closely in parallel existences. When it happened, Sam realized he hadn't wanted to deny himself that connection.

>  _"Sam—hey."_
> 
>  _Sam startles awake, a light touch on his shoulder. Eric crouches close, his eyes drawn in concern. Sam doesn't remember falling asleep but what came after is nauseatingly clear._
> 
>  _"You were shaking so bad I thought you were gonna fall off the couch," Eric says. "Are you okay?"_
> 
>  _Rather than lie, Sam takes a deep breath to dispel the threads of his nightmare. Lucifer uses even the most gossamer sleep as an excuse to claw at the inside of Sam's mind._
> 
>  _"Sorry I fell asleep on you."_
> 
>  _Eric's couch is more comfortable than Sam's, easy to settle into the overstuffed cushions. In the incandescent light, Sam picks out the fine lines on Eric's face, more from the stress of his former life than age, but they don't make him any less attractive. Sam focuses on that._
> 
>  _"It's okay, I was making coffee when I heard you."_
> 
>  _"Man, coffee sounds great right now."_
> 
>  _Eric isn't moving away and it's a moment before Sam understands why. He follows Eric's blue eyes down to where they're fixed on Sam's hand. His fingers are tightly wound in Eric's shirt, the fabric creased in his grip. And Sam's not letting go._
> 
>  _Touch, already a rare commodity in Sam's life, has been withheld for so long and it feels too good to give up. But Eric's nervous, all tension and heavy pulse under Sam's fingers._
> 
>  _"I'll—I'll get you a cup if—"_
> 
>  _Sam doesn't let Eric work his arm loose; they move together with a magnetic affinity, lips meeting somewhere in the middle. Both so starved, gentle mouths foregoing any hesitation and taking what they need..._

  
Eric's handsome exterior was matched by his steady, true spirit. For a man who'd witnessed so much hardship and pain, Eric's heart was remarkably well-kept—no cruelty or apathetic cynicism from long years spent knee-deep in the atrocities of human nature.

What started impetuously settled into a relationship no stranger than the majority of others in Sam's life. Easy like a salt-and-burn, going through the motions and finding comfort in the little things. Eric dealt with Sam's frequent nightmares the best way he knew how, never letting Sam go back to sleep without their hands woven together or their feet slowly burrowing for warmth under the covers.

Sam aches for those comforts now and has to content himself with memories. They dull the edges of Sam's latest nightmare but fall short of the relief of having Eric next to him.

When the garden fades completely from his mind, Sam slides back onto his pillow and slowly drifts back into unconsciousness.

March 26th

"Do you guys want anything else before I go?" Riley hangs her old apron on a hook outside the kitchen door. Eric and Sam shake their heads simultaneously, a slowly-progressing game of chess laid out between them on the booth table.

"Have a good time with Mitch," Eric says with a grin, fingers lighting on his bishop before reconsidering. They tease Riley like brothers; it's well-meaning, but she huffs as she runs a hand down her black shirt. "Me and Sam'll be fine."

Now alone in the diner, Sam silently squares off with Eric over the table. The outcome of the game hardly matters; playing is the fun part.

"I hope Riley and Mitch don't get too serious." Eric makes an aggressive move with his knight.

Sam considers his counter-attack. "She'll never abandon us. She likes us too much." Pieces float across the checkered board—it matches the new curtains Annabel had sewn for the diner—in no hurry. Eric's fingers occasionally brush Sam's when they reach for the plate of brownies Riley left, but Sam no longer feels the uncomfortable sting to pull away from the touch.

The dust has settled between them in the last few weeks. When Sam looks at Eric, those blue eyes only drum up feelings of affection and friendship instead of confusion. Though the rules of relationships are unquestionably skewed in Bells Pond, they'd gone through an inevitable period of awkward looks and stilted conversation before regaining their balance.

"Your move."

Eric's brow is set in deep furrows. "I'm thinkin' here."

"Think faster."

The diner remains Bells Pond's town center. With fifteen residents, it's no more crowded than it used to be. Others come and go, benefiting from the food and company. They grasp that, at its heart, the diner belongs to Sam, Gus, Riley and Eric, who certainly spend more time there than anyone else.

An hour later, Eric pumps his fists in victory. "And the student becomes the master!"

"It's about time," Sam concedes, stealing the last brownie in retaliation. Admittedly Sam is no chess master, but he knows the basics and they'd gone from there.

"Something else I never thought I'd have time for." Eric resets the board, spins the black queen between his long fingers. "Learning chess."

Sam never thought he'd have time to teach chess to anyone. Dean would have found a way to cheat or make money from the game; Cas probably figured there were better things to waste time on.

"Do you want a ride home? Ames finally got me a few more gallons of gas," Sam explains. "And I had to bring Riley that stupid table that was in my basement."

Eric smiles, calm and casual. "If you're offering..."

The old Ford sputters and shimmies until Sam shifts out of park. It had taken weeks of painstaking work as Sam followed Dean's instructions, but the truck runs well. The gas station across from the diner is beyond anyone's ability to repair, but angels have their uses. Ambriel—turned out the Wanderer did have a name—scrounges up a few gallons of unleaded every few weeks to keep Sam's truck on the road. Since having a vehicle benefits everyone, Ames is willing to help. If it were just Sam, he imagines their angel would be much more reluctant.

The trip to Eric's seems to take seconds compared to walking, and it's a familiar route. His house is no flashier than Sam's, a low clapboard ranch that came with a massive oak dining room table and silly gingham curtains Sam loves to mock. He's pretty sure his amusement is the reason Eric never takes them down.

"Up for a drink?" Eric's fingers drum rhythmically on the window frame.

"Not tonight." Sam says honestly. He deserves it after the way Sam wavered over their relationship. Just the sight of this house makes Sam want to say yes; it means a good night's sleep, the tune of someone's steady breathing as a barrier to turbulent dreams.

"I've got a few things to get done." Eric knows about Dean. Not the whole truth—the Winchester gospel isn't for everyone—but enough to understand Sam's commitment to an absent man. "But I'll be at the diner in the morning. Can I pick you up?"

"Don't be early."

They clasp hands, each holding on a second past casual.

Back at his own house, Sam pushes Eric to the back of his mind. One more day to get through. Deciding that cleaning can wait until tomorrow, Sam heads to bed early and prays he stays out of the garden—or the motel room, or the crossroads—with the Devil tonight.

March 28th

Dean is late.

There's a cinnamon coffee cake warming in the oven. Riley had outdone herself when Sam told her Dean was coming back. She'd saved the third pan of breakfast cake for Sam after the first two fell victim to hungry residents. The coffee is ready, two mugs on the counter waiting to be filled.

But it's 8:15 and there's been no white-hot blaze or the sound of a familiar tread on Sam's porch.

8:16.

Ten minutes is an eternity. Twenty is unbearable. After half an hour Sam's ready to start screaming for Ames but he's stuck on the couch with the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. Sam's got the wrong day—that has to be it. He wastes eight minutes double checking his "Birds in Flight" calendar. No question, it's the twenty-eighth.

One minute shy of nine o'clock, the house starts to shake. Fine tremors at first, then the floor starts to warp and creak beneath Sam's feet. Lamps and dishes vibrate where they sit and Sam springs off the couch and attempts to keep his balance.

Light explodes in the kitchen, pure rays hitting Sam in the living room. Dean is there when the light recedes and the foundations stop their violent dance.

Sam doesn't notice at first; relief momentarily short-circuits his ability to process. Meeting Sam's eyes, Dean lurches forward and falters. Whatever force brought him here suddenly cuts his strings and Dean goes down in a pile on Sam's kitchen floor.

"Dean!" Sam reels and drops hard onto his knees. Sam doesn't know where to start. Dean's not wearing his jacket, blood staining from the hem of his shirt to his underarms. Face down, Dean gives a great shudder and pushes up.

"I'm okay, Sam."

Like Sam's going to believe that when it sounds as if Dean's been gargling nails. "You're not, stay down!"

Dean listens as well as ever, groaning all the way up onto his knees. Sam's initial assessment was crap—Dean looks _horrible_. Like he picked a fight with shrapnel and got his name taken. The blood on his arms is from dozens of cuts underneath his shirt and the fingers of his left hand are swollen to the size of breakfast sausages.

"Stop moving," Sam commands harshly.

Dean rocks back on his heels but stays put. "Nice to see you too."

"Shut up."

Dean snorts and coughs roughly when the sound irritates his throat.

"Are you gonna let me help you up?" Sam is careful, sliding his arm around Dean's torso and gingerly pulling him to his feet. When he eases his grip, Dean wobbles, trying to shake Sam off. "Come on, you have to lie down."

Dean grins lewdly when they hobble into the bedroom, humor marred by the bloodstains on his face. "All you had to do was ask, Sammy."

It's pointless to tell Dean to shut up again, so Sam attempts to ignore the words that could be taken so differently.

"It's worse than it looks," Dean says when Sam helps him sit up against the headboard. "A lot of this blood, I'm pretty sure it's not mine."

"Let me look." Looking involves getting Dean out of his bloody shirt and trying not to freak out every time Dean flinches. "Did you get in a fight with a blender?"

"Kicked its ass, too."

"Liar."

It's hard for Sam to joke after that. Dean's t-shirt comes off, plopping on the floor with a weighty smack. As appealing as seeing Dean half-naked might be under normal circumstances, seeing his bruised and battered torso brings bile up into Sam's throat.

Dean keeps his mouth shut while Sam puts years of wound dressing into practice, never more glad for his decently-stocked first aid kit that's never seen use until now. Sam's sheets are a lost cause as every cut is washed and cleaned, pinkish water soaking through beneath Dean's thighs. The copper tinge to the air chokes Sam up as he bandages the largest injuries and gets a huge bag of ice for Dean's left hand.

"You missed your calling," Dean finally says. "You could've been a nurse, a hot male nurse—murses, isn't that what they're called?"

"Ready to tell me what happened?" Sam ignores him.

Dean scans over his own injuries. "A fight over a seal, a big one. The Devil himself made a cameo," he grimaces.

Sam's heart nearly stops. "Was he the one—"

"No, this wasn't him," Dean adds quietly. "But he had plenty of his pals playing Stab-the-Vessel. The seals are working, though. I think we're winning."

"This is winning?" Sam nods to the Rorschach bruising over Dean's chest. Some pieces of Dean didn't make it to Bells Pond this year. "I'd hate to see you losing."

He's relieved to see a genuine smile even if Dean's eyes bear the weight of pain. They sit together, Dean taking the deepest breaths he can with his injuries.

Sam had thought a lot about Dean's mission over the last year, relying on optimism to bring himself a tolerable measure of peace. He'd succeeded for the most part but now, with the evidence of the battering Dean's taking—definitely not the first, Sam guesses—he starts to reconsider just how well the angels have a handle on things.

"Wasn't Michael there? He couldn't have healed you?"

Dean shakes his head with minimal movement. "He was off in another fight and he left this one up to me and Cas."

"What about afterward?"

"He offered, but healing takes time and I had an important date." He shrugs. "I told Michael that I'd live and that I wasn't going to miss this. He was a little...reluctant, I guess, so Cas called in a favor and had a few other angels drop me off. Sorry if they made a bit of a scene."

"You should have let him help you."

"And miss getting nagged by my little brother? Not a chance."

After moving Dean long enough to change the sheets, Sam's stomach grumbles and he remembers the coffee and cake all set to go. He brings breakfast to the bedroom instead, no way Dean will pass on food unless he's throwing up or unconscious.

"This is from Riley." He sets a plate and napkins on the bed next to Dean. "Apparently she thinks you deserve it."

"She baked me breakfast?" Dean's impressed with the spread. "Sam, you need to wrap that up."

"Too late."

"Really?" Dean asks with cinnamon crumbles at the corner of his mouth. "What happened?"

"A new guy named Mitch got dropped off a few months back. He sort of made an impression," Sam explains as he hands Dean water and Tylenol, also fetched from the kitchen.

"Stolen right out from under your nose? That's too bad."

"I'm sure I'll get over it." Sam grins, watches Dean's throat rise and fall as he finishes the glass of water.

"Mitch—I don't like it. Sounds like a douchey kind of name."

"Nice, Dean."

Dean starts to nod off when the full force of his injuries and the drugs hit. Sam clears away breakfast before Dean faceplants into his plate. He stays, listens to Dean's muttering as he finally falls asleep wrapped up in Sam's covers. When he's positive Dean's under, Sam grabs his coat and books it out of the house.

"I didn't expect to see you out today." Ames appears in the road behind Sam, standing nonchalantly as if he hadn't been disturbed by Sam's ragged shouting.

Sam ignores the pleasantries. "Can you help him?"

"Help who?"

"Dean!"

The unflappable Ames ponders, no doubt downloading the information he needs from the angelic network, figuring out what's got Sam so riled up. "His injuries, you mean. I'm sorry, Sam. Your brother is a no-fly-zone for the rest of us. He's Michael's vessel and only Michael can heal him."

"You're telling me there's no way I can help him?"

"He's not dying, Sam." A dry breeze picks up the bottom of the angel's coat; it billows out behind him. "He might need to rest, but then he'll be back with Michael."

"Where he'll keep getting torn to shreds in _your_ war."

Ames is shrewd enough not to respond. Bells Pond is normally quiet but this silence goes deeper as if the very air around them has stopped to listen in.

"Can you pass along a message?" Sam asks quietly. "Tell Michael that Dean needs time to recover."

He expects apathy. At most, sympathy and inaction. Sam gets neither.

"You've started to care again."

"I— _what_?" Sam's stunned. "He's my brother."

"And _now_ you want to help him," Ames stresses. "Has that always been the case?"

Figuring out what Ames is getting at proves tough; his implacable front frustrates Sam to the point of anger. "You're crazy, okay? I have always cared about Dean."

"I know your story, Sam." Ames doesn't miss a beat. "We all do. You and Dean are broken. You have been for a long time and yet you barely paused because you were on a mission. Because Dean wasn't important."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He spins and paces a few steps up the road. His house lies just around the corner where Dean is hopefully asleep. Deja vu hits from the empty fields, placing Sam outside dingy motels, neon glare harsh on his eyes. Secret meetings, afraid Dean would wake up and find him...

"We're getting better." Sam doesn't turn around, speaking to the open road.

"You are." He senses Ames right behind him. "Did it take coming here for you to realize you weren't whole?"

"No," Sam says. "I knew."

He stands there, the earth ceasing to turn beneath his feet, for so long he thinks Ames has disappeared. The air shifts subtly and he glimpses the angel in his periphery.

"I didn't want you here."

Sam closes his eyes, lets his head hang forward. Ames has never come out and said it, but he's never been as easy with Sam. The angel is friendly with Eric; next to Riley and Sam, Ames is Eric's closest friend. They remind him of Castiel and Dean, completely different yet drawn together. But with Sam, his interactions are confusing on a good day, vaguely bordering on hostile for the rest.

Ames isn't finished. "I knew about you and your brother. When Michael shared his plans with me, I was...unenthusiastic. I may not be the one choosing who comes here, but I'm the guardian of Bells Pond. With everything you'd done, I thought you'd make a destructive addition.

"Think, Sam! You helped so many people, yes, but how many did you harm along the way? You carry that guilt like a mantle and you could have wrecked this place. But," he concedes, "you didn't, even though you certainly gave it your best shot in the beginning."

"Only because I was angry."

"That I can understand," the angel counters. "Instead of joining in _our_ war, as you put it, I was asked to watch over these people. A nobler task I could never have imagined."

"We're just regular people."

Ames rarely shows amusement, but his eyes light up here. "Of course."

"If you didn't want me here, you could have let me go."

"Much as we share a distaste for authority, Sam, you know I couldn't do that," the angel says. "Perhaps I knew that one day you would learn why you really came here."

"Because of Michael? The only way he could get Dean to say yes was to agree to keep me safe."

"Michael could have easily put you into a coma and hidden you away. Or kept you in a box, he's creative like that." Hearing sarcasm from an angel is a new experience. Castiel never got the right tone down. "Part of it was Dean's wish, that's true, but Michael thought of this as a gift when reason said he should have killed you on the spot."

"Lucky me," Sam groans.

"Indeed."

"You know you're not making any sense, right?"

Ames' mouth quirks up. "Eric informs me that I rarely do."

Sam's heart warms a little at Eric's name. "Drop by and see him today, will you?"

"I was on my way before you started yelling." The angel turns, but looks back at Sam. "You might want to head back to your house. Dean's about to wake up and—"

He doesn't wait around to hear the rest.

Dean sulks over lunch, not allowed to get out of bed and shot down when he suggests they go to the diner.

"Someone's gotta convince Riley that Mitch is totally wrong for her."

"You've never met him," Sam points out, gathering their plates and napkins and taking them back to the kitchen.

"What's suddenly put you in a funk?" Dean asks.

"I'm not in a funk," he says, but it sounds surly.

"Trust me, Sam. I know a little brother funk when I see one. What the hell could have happened when I was only asleep for an hour?"

There's no tactful way to bring up the revelations Ames had dropped, but Dean's like a dog with a bone, staring at Sam until he gives it up. "Before you made your deal with Michael, did you think I didn't care about you anymore?"

"Great, something new," Dean snarks, eyes doing a full roll.

"I'm serious. Did you think I was—"

"No," he cuts in. "We were both really messed up, alright?"

"But I was screwed up, right? Ruby, Lucifer, the demon blood—I let everything get to me and I was dangerous."

"Sam, I don't really want to hear this."

"But I have to say it. I was losing you, pushing you away, and all I could focus on was the Apocalypse and finding a way to end it. I didn't notice that we, that I..."

"I'm not letting you take the blame," Dean says, voice clear and sharp. "We let angels and demons, even ghosts, tell us what we're supposed to be doing. When you died and I made the first deal, that was it."

"That was what?"

"The moment things changed."

"But if you hadn't, I would have—"

"No, I should never have let you die in the first place. I should have been there to save you, Sam, and I wasn't." His voice sinks to a pained whisper. "I broke a little bit more every day after that, knowing that I started it all. But I still had you. You stuck around and things were okay for a while until, well, you know."

Until the Winchesters became Ground Zero for the Apocalypse.

"It's been a long time since I've done something that was necessary like this."

"What do you mean?" Sam asks.

"I figure, at this point, it doesn't matter who started this, or why," he tells Sam. "All that matters now is that this ends the way it's supposed to. And that's with our side winning, Sam. Not Lucifer's side, and not really the angels' side either. We deserve to come out on top in this. Mom and Dad were good people and they didn't deserve what happened to our family."

Dean sags, the speech draining what energy he'd built up. Sam's throat won't work no matter what he tries.

"I had no idea you thought that way."

"When Michael's not riding my ass, I have a lot of time to think."

"Sounds dangerous."

Dean gives Sam a small smile. "Anyway, I was so wrapped up with you, and with this." Dean's _this_ sounds intentionally vague and Sam tries not to imagine what Dean's thinking. "Being away from you hasn't changed that, but I think we're getting better."

"That could be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Dean relaxes. "Don't get used to it. Now are we done?"

"Oh yeah," Sam pats Dean's leg, the tension Ames had instilled in him, gone. "I hope so."

"Fucking _finally_ ," Dean sighs, real relief in the words. "Can we go and _do_ something?"

They make it to the front porch where Dean settles carefully on the top step with Sam's help. He leans against the railing wrapped in one of Sam's old sweatshirts. The excess fabric makes Dean appear smaller and sicker, but he's grinning even after Sam refuses to bring him a beer.

"When you can walk on your own, I'll think about it."

They catch up on life in Bells Pond, Sam explaining why Mitch is good for Riley and assures Dean, like he'd reassured Eric, that she'll always have time for her friends.

"It's good to make that kind of connection here. For them, I mean," Sam covers, edging too close to his own time with Eric.

"Did you guys finish your library?"

"Yeah." Sam sits on the stoop next to Dean. "Only Gus decided it needed to be bigger and it's become sort of a trading post. We all got saddled with a bunch of junk, not just books, and it's a good way to get rid of stuff you don't want."

"Sounds way too practical," Dean mutters.

Large, rolling clouds churn in the north, lending a dark edge to the sky. Dean falls in and out of the conversation, injuries making themselves remembered and Sam goes for more pain relievers. It seems like Dean could fall asleep right here with his head tilted back against the weathered beams. He's carefree as if Sam hadn't cleaned and bandaged dozens of scrapes and several deep gashes.

Sam tells Dean about fixing the truck and keeping it running, proud that he managed to get it going in the first place.

"I knew you could do it," Dean sleepily appraises, never opening his eyes.

"Yeah, that's why you had to leave such detailed instructions. 'Cause you had total faith."

The wind picks up out of the north where the towers of clouds have begun to amass. They move from the porch to the sofa where Sam brings two mugs of fresh coffee and watches Dean try to make himself comfortable on the lumpy cushions. They're quiet as the first low rumble of thunder passes as a warning to anyone in the storm's path.

"What about Eric?"

Sam falters, fumbling with his mug.

"I remember you talking about him last year. Is he still in the picture, or did he get lucky and get out?"

"No one gets out," Sam's says with less bitterness than he expects. "Eric's fine, he's just trying to make it through like the rest of us." The way Dean's staring, Sam feels exposed. As if he's said more but can't remember doing so. "We spend a lot of time together, just two guys who'd be starving if not for Riley."

Dean's expression is carefully neutral. The battering rain comes as no surprise; neither flinches at the intense whip-crack of thunder. The fury of the inclement weather has been building all afternoon, shaded clouds rolling in from the north now hanging heavily over Bells Pond. The sun hides away, layers of rain-thick clouds obscuring its path to the ground.

"You don't have to live like this."

This is news to Sam. "What are you talking about?"

The storm surrounds the house in an eerie half-darkness; whatever daylight is left has been diluted by the downpour and cloudy haze.

"I mean you could find someone. A connection, like you said before."

"This isn't exactly a hard life," Sam lies.

"Just sounds to me like you wouldn't mind, that's all." Dean looks away. "This whole situation, it's not gonna be permanent. We'll win and you can have whatever—"

"C'mon, Dean." Sam sighs. "Stop acting like when this is over, I'm gonna split."

"I wouldn't blame you."

Sam chooses not to dignify that.

"I'm just saying, if you want to..."

"I already have," Sam says, plain and simple.

"Oh." It seems inadequate after the show of support Dean had just put on. "I guess...who?"

"Eric." Sam has no idea what Dean's thinking. It was never a secret—no two men lived in each other's pockets like they did and not realize how flexible they were. Not that they'd never talked about it.

"Eric, huh?" The shades go down over Dean's face, his gloomy eyes fixed on Sam. "I didn't know...I mean, I knew, but I thought you were pretty much—"

"Straight most of the time?"

"I was gonna say, a monk."

"Funny, Dean. Nice try."

"If he's a good guy then, yeah. Okay. Does he... _fuck_." Dean scowls and Sam grins at the unintentional joke. "He's good for you, right?"

"Dean, we're not, like, together. We never really were and now we're friends."

"Sorry." Dean keeps his eyes far away from Sam.

"Don't be. It's good." He gets up before Dean adds more. The questioning isn't uncomfortable, just strange. Getting Sam's hopes up to a level where they really shouldn't exist. Not enough air to live on way up there.

By the time Sam comes back, the subject is dropped and Dean's in a half-doze. Off the hook, he lets Dean sleep. The color hasn't quite returned to his face, still drawn and pale. Grabbing a book from his bedroom—some true-crime thriller Eric had recommended as ' _not completely worthless and manages to get a few details right_ '—Sam lets the words and the rumble of the storm lull him into his own afternoon nap.

March 29th

The sun cracks the horizon in a low streak of orange, breaking through the gray dawn Sam's been staring at for nearly an hour. He'd woken with a jolt to find the house quiet and Dean still asleep in the bedroom. Watching Dean is strange; they no longer share motel rooms where they'd long worked out a routine of getting around each other. Some familiarity remains, but the rest has been lost as their lives split in different directions. Sam had spent the quiet hours of the morning wondering if that was a consequence or a benefit.

His thoughts had pushed into more precarious territory after that. Sam inevitably thought about Eric and the relationship they'd attempted to build. Though they were attracted to each other and compatible, Sam knows they lacked a foundation. Without support, no structure could stand and it was impossible for Sam and Eric to find such a base of emotions in Bells Pond.

For Sam and Dean, there is a lifetime of emotion and conflict on which to build. Before Michael and Lucifer ripped them apart, they'd been so close, too close for brothers. Anything on top of that wouldn't change their relationship; Sam knows their fates are tied together. No physical relationship will alter that.

The sun comes up with Sam sure about one thing: he needs more time with Dean and he's willing to fight the angels for it.

"It's too early for thinking." Dean's voice hasn't caught up with the sun, still sleep-tinged.

"Telling my head to stop never works." Sam kicks the opposite chair out for Dean, his brother's movements slow and precise. "Still hurting?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Dean says as he winces. "I think sleep did some good. Sorry I crashed kind of early last night."

"You needed it." Sam could have used a few more hours, but he'll have plenty of time after... "Want breakfast?"

"Only if I don't have to move."

They eat a hastily-made breakfast and Sam pays more attention to his brother than his food, dropping a forkful of egg into his lap.

"Having trouble?" Dean laughs and scrapes the last bit of cheese off his plate.

"Ever thought about asking Michael for a few more days?"

"You mean here? Tried that the first year. It was a no-go."

"Oh." Sam should have figured. "But since you're hurt—"

"Michael'll fix that," Dean mopes. "I don't even get decent injury time, can you believe it?"

"Dean."

"I'll be fine."

Sam can't say the same. He'll carry the image of Dean collapsing on his kitchen floor throughout the year. Back to never knowing if Dean's alright, only truly living in the space between his nightmares and his daydreams. Sam is dreading it more than ever.

"Sam?" The plates are gone and Dean's standing, leaning on the back of his chair. Even the minimal exertion turns his face ashen.

"I don't think you should go." The numbers on the clock flip towards 8:15.

Dean moves behind Sam's chair and casts a long shadow. He doesn't waste breaths with platitudes, won't tell Sam that it's impossible. He's so close, only a few minutes left until Sam loses him all over again. Suddenly, it's not enough.

With a long, desperate scrape, Sam pushes back from the table and nearly knocks Dean over. He stumbles against the wall, saved from falling by Sam's chest pressing into him. Without thought, Sam wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders, gently at first, mindful of the injuries he'd only treated a day ago. He adds more pressure when Dean doesn't physically respond. The risk of Dean pulling away is too great; Sam won't let go.

If he tethers Dean to Bells Pond with his body, Michael can't take him back.

"Stay here," Sam pleads.

Dean returns the hug, gingerly raising his arms, one around Sam's neck and the other across his broad back. Fingers tighten and hold in Sam's t-shirt and he takes a ragged breath. In Sam's life, hugs have been reserved as a last resort for emotional expression. When words won't come, or come close to being adequate. To forget about death or celebrate life. Sam figures it's the best way to tell Dean how confused he's been without needing to speak.

 _One minute left_.

Sam doesn't need to look at the clock. The thought makes him crazy because the next thing he knows his lips are on Dean's, pressing hard. No dream turned reality, it's an imperfect kiss where the parts don't quite match up, but the moment burns into Sam's mind regardless of how dry Dean's lips are or the way Sam breathes heavily through his nose. They're both shocked, standing motionless, and Sam feels the fear crawling up his spine. If Sam is wrong, he's just done more damage than any bullet from the Colt could wreak.

All it takes is a subtle shift, Dean pushing up using the wall as leverage, and it's _there_. Sam closes his eyes a second after Dean does and just takes, laying Dean's mouth open for his tongue and teeth. The kiss takes on a sharp edge as the seconds continue to tick away. Hands on Dean's shoulders, Sam pushes to get closer while Dean angles to deepen the kiss. Coming together from head to toe, their hands grapple and move, tongues sliding to find their pleasure. Sam has known every inch of his brother but this, and the final piece is like nothing he ever expected.

Sam's skin feels warm and he moans into Dean's mouth.

"Sam—" Dean gains enough space to take a breath as Sam continues to kiss the corner of his lips and the stubbled skin above.

He won't let Dean stop. Not now. "I've wanted... _please_ , Dean."

" _Sam_."

It's not just warm; the skin on Sam's arms becomes hot as light burns behind his eyelids. He takes a chance, opens his eyes against the aurora suddenly filling his kitchen, needing to see Dean one more time. The edges are blurred, erased by the radiant beams, but he focuses enough to see Dean's clear eyes, free of shame or anger. There's a smile, small but strong, and all for Sam. Fingers skim from Sam's shoulder to his throat, up over his chin and then are gone along with everything else.

The only thing Dean leaves behind this year is the pain of a kiss on Sam's lips.

>  _"I've got to hand it to you, Sam."_
> 
>  _They're in another motel room; Sam doesn't waste time on details he won't remember._
> 
>  _The Devil's palms are wrapped over one another in front of his chest. "I didn't see this coming, but man, this is good. Not something I personally would have thought of, but it just goes to show that you're truly the right man for the job."_
> 
>  _The particulars of the dream flow and morph but Sam stays quiet as he's done countless times._
> 
>  _"Your own brother," Lucifer says. "I'm impressed. There's a poetry to all of this, I'm sure you've realized that by now. My brother and I were close, too. Nothing like you and Dean, of course." The Devil waits, hungry for a reaction Sam is fighting not to satisfy him with. "Michael must know. Do you really think he'll let Dean have you and risk tarnishing his righteous vessel with a sin like this?"_
> 
>  _Lucifer is one threat away from full-on laughter. "It's been too long since I've seen our brothers, but I wish I could be there when Michael tells Dean that there's no chance for you two. I want to see Dean's face..."_
> 
>  _There's no way for Sam to keep his mind blank, Lucifer pulls his thoughts like raffle tickets on a roll._
> 
>  _"Do you want him, Sam?" Lucifer's voice slithers directly into Sam's ear though neither has moved. "I mean, do you really, really want him? He's not my type, but I can see the appeal. All that pretty skin waiting to be marked up and burned off? And Dean's lips—I bet those were ripped off once or twice. He'd look so good screaming with a bloody mouth."_
> 
>  _The echo of a wail, real or not, hits Sam. Churns the bile in his gut._
> 
>  _"You know, I wasn't there, but I heard about all the fun Alastair and Dean had, so I can see why you'd like him. He breaks so perfectly," the Devil adds with manic glee. "If you really want him, I can help you. I'll give you two my blessing, and you can fuck each other up until the sun falls out of the sky."_
> 
>  _Sam knows what's coming._
> 
>  _"Say yes," Lucifer hisses, forked tongue giving the offer such a desirable twist. "Say yes and he's yours."_
> 
>  _Sam takes a single deep breath, not sure what he's pulling into his lungs._
> 
>  _"He's already mine."_
> 
>  _And then Sam pinches his eyes shut and waits to wake up._

  


March 28th

Dean blows in with the southern wind; Sam feels the warmth of it on his cheeks.

In the diner's kitchen, Riley sings a soft tune as she pours lumpy batter into each well of her muffin tin. At the counter, Mitch leans forward on his thick elbows to watch. His coffee goes cold as the two share smiles.

Ames and Eric are locked in quiet combat over the chessboard. Sitting in Sam's usual booth, they trade carefully strategical moves, Eric sipping his coffee after every turn. The angel had picked up chess remarkably quickly; Sam guesses he's humoring Eric with feigned inexperience. If Eric knows, he doesn't care, and the two play with an intensity that was lacking in the games Sam and Eric used to play.

On the opposite end of the diner, Sara and Annabel chat over a plate of Riley's first batch of banana nut muffins. Anthony drinks his coffee, mug dwarfed in his large palms, chiming in with a word or a nod every so often. Gus has come and gone, eager to get a start on another project. After eating, he leaves with an extra serving of coffee and a piece of the apple pie Riley and Eric had teamed up to bake yesterday.

They've gotten used to tranquil days like this, Bells Pond's few residents not getting the chance for much more than that. The majority have settled into their routines, only a handful more comfortable with isolation. Gus checks on them from time to time, but no one likes to think about those who refuse to leave their homes. There's only so much Sam and the others can do. Even Ames admits that not every case is easy.

Sam senses the instant Dean arrives, a calming breeze passing through the diner's open door.

He's nervous in a way he's never fathomed, waiting while the others continue their morning ignorant of the shift in the atmosphere Sam associates with angelic deliveries. Ames' mouth twitches up at the corner but that could be a result of capturing Eric's bishop. The angel had let it slip to Sam that wherever he was today, that's where Dean would appear. The diner is neutral ground; Sam lacks the confidence to confront Dean alone at his house this year.

Sam pictures Dean out on the dusty road with the early sun lighting on his shoulders as he catches a glimpse of the diner.

Another minute of distraction and Dean walks through the door.

 _He's alright._

Sam's eye is immediately assessing: no blood, no visible injuries or tell-tale signs of pain. He's healthy and hale. Sam's next thought is much more of a sucker punch.

 _I kissed him._

Dean finds Sam at the counter and smiles, happiness laced with apprehension. Sam knows exactly how that feels.

"Don't I get a hello?"

Everyone turns and looks; Dean's a familiar face for everyone but Mitch and Annabel. Caught behind the counter, Sam's unable to look away as Dean crosses towards him.

"Dean?" Riley steps out of the kitchen, absently stepping in the middle of Sam and Dean's stare-down. "What are you doing here? Sam said—"

"I said I wasn't sure," Sam pipes up, coming around the counter.

"I just couldn't stay away." Dean puts on a bright, flirty smile to masks his emotions. "Last year—it wasn't a banner year for me."

They have a round of introductions, and Dean charms Riley right under Mitch's nose. Sam uses the opportunity to study Dean carefully. The lines on his face are blade-sharp and firm. Instead of looking older—Dean's over thirty-five now—he appears harder. Always beautiful and fierce to Sam, Michael's possessions have changed him and Sam needs to get his hands on Dean to find out just how much.

Jumping Dean in the diner. That would get a few looks. At least no one knows Dean's his brother besides Ames and the angel's not paying attention, scrutinizing the chessboard while Eric's distracted eyes focus in their direction.

"I'll have more muffins in ten minutes." Riley's already poured coffee for Dean, automatically setting it on the empty stool next to Sam's. "You're staying, right?"

"That's why I'm here," Dean says. Much quieter, he leans over to ask, "Sam, why am I _here_?"

"Because I'm here."

"Right." As if it makes perfect sense.

"You look better." Sam keeps his voice soft so their conversation remains private. All eyes are on them with the exception of Ames and now Eric; those two are hunched close and whispering.. Sam doubts they're talking about the chess match.

"I got a new health-care plan," Dean quips, grinning at Riley. "Catastrophic coverage."

"How often did you need that this year?"

Dean's answer is stolen when Riley pushes a plate of seasoned hash browns in front of Dean. "It's a new recipe, you've got to try them!" She hurries away to make more as a potato-less Mitch pouts in her direction.

Sam could kick himself. Using Ames' information, he'd picked the diner as this year's rendezvous just in case that kiss had negative repercussions. This way there would be no scene until they were alone. Sam has no doubt Dean could successfully hide his anger while they have company. Unable to talk openly, Sam has no clue where they stand or what Dean's thinking. On top of all that, he has to share his brother. With Riley who barely gives Dean enough time to inhale before she's bringing more food, and with a heavy-browed Mitch who keeps staring over and making Sam nervous. The others' curious looks don't faze Dean, but Sam second-guessed his choice to come to the diner in the first place.

"Hey, Dean?" Riley nervously fingers the hem of her apron, batter stains dried on the fabric. "Is there any way...anything you can tell me about what's going on?"

Both Winchesters freeze. Dean recovers first. "What do you mean?"

"You know," she wavers. Fortunately, in the far booth, Anthony, Sara, and Annabel are no longer paying attention. "Before I got here, I knew things were starting to go bad...out there. Is it still like that?"

Sam is eager for the answer. For all he knows the world is a wasteland with Bells Pond as the only sustainable haven, but he thinks that would show on Dean's face. He won't put Dean on the spot, wants to get him home and talk there.

"I can't tell you much," Dean says. "I'm not in the 'real world' either. Where I'm stuck—" He struggles, Sam's hand going to squeeze his knee without second thought. "It's not like you have it here, but it's not real either. You know what I'm saying?"

Riley doesn't hide her disappointment well. Mitch's face darkens, disbelieving, and Sam's afraid he's going to needle the issue. Sam doesn't want Dean to snap here.

"I think we should get going," Sam interrupts. "Unless you want to stay a little bit longer?"

"I'm good." Dean pushes back. "Thanks, Riley. The food was awesome."

Everyone's quiet when Sam and Dean walk out of the diner; Sam's never felt more awkward around his friends, relieved when they make it to the truck, slamming the creaky doors and taking a deep breath.

"Ready to go?"

Dean's looking out across the fields, grass well on its way to full green so early in the year.

"Absolutely."

"Did you get a new couch?"

The darkly upholstered sofa takes up a good chunk of Sam's living room but with little other furniture it hardly matters. He and Eric had nearly broken their backs getting it through Sam's front door, collapsing onto it afterward and declaring the pain was worth the pleasure.

"Annabel had two in her house, and she offered me one if I was willing to move it. Good thing I had the truck."

"I like it." Dean drops heavily onto the cushions that are no longer a threat to anyone's spinal alignment.

Sam's too worked up to sit. For as many times as Dean's been in Sam's house, this time is not at all comparable to the others. Consumed with thoughts of pressing Dean back into those cushions, kneeing up into his lap, Sam wonders how Dean can act so casual, as if he's waiting for Sam to tell him a story.

"I could use some coffee, how about you?" Sam escapes before Dean answers. From the kitchen he hears Dean stand up, his weight settling on the hardwood floor.

"Where'd you get these frames?" Dean asks from the other room.

"Oh," Sam knows exactly what he's talking about. "Gus found some nice pieces of wood in one of the buildings in town and he made a few frames for each of us." Sam was one of the few who had pictures to put in them, the Winchester family photos finally in a proper home.

"I like 'em."

The coffee maker bubbles and brews enough to distract Sam, hot water pouring through the grounds and dripping into the pot. He leaves it to run, and goes to face Dean again.

Sam never makes it past the doorjamb.

In an admittedly impressive move, Sam is caught up by Dean's hands and forced against the wall. Dean's mouth swoops down immediately to swallow Sam's groan. Shocked to a momentary standstill, Sam is mentally accosted and physically pinned. His feet slide out, Dean nudges him back to the wall. Their knees don't quite match up, bones knocking. Dean's solid body holds him to the drywall until he abruptly lets go.

"Fuck—" Dean wipes across his mouth with the back of his hand. He judges three feet to be a safe-enough distance between them. "I didn't mean to—"

"You didn't?" Sam heaves away from the wall, bites into that safe-zone.

"Sam, we're—we shouldn't. If we do this—"

Anything coming out of Dean's mouth won't be good. Sam's body beats his brain to the punch, wrestling forward and batting Dean's arms to the side. He needs more than discombobulated protests if he's going to stop whatever this is becoming.

Sam meets Dean square-on, judging the fervor in his fiery green eyes. He sees more than interest, able to feel Dean's poorly-guarded infatuation, as if he wanted Sam to know...

Striking with his own kiss, Sam pulls Dean back to the wall, his shoulder blades practically forced into the sheet-rock. Dean's heavy against Sam's front, their tongues twisting together. Opening his eyes, Dean's face is full up in Sam's vision; Dean is lost to the kiss, eyelids lowered to show the dark fan of his lashes. Their teeth catch, tongues slipping in the way of first times when a partner's lips are a map without a key. A single moment one year ago had hardly been enough to show Sam the way.

"Yeah, fuck—" Dean gasps when Sam lets his lips go. "We're doing this."

Picked up and carried away, Sam grips Dean's shirt like an anchor finding an underwater ledge, letting the effects of the kiss slide down and ignite his body. It's easier to continue than to stop and allow words to get the better of them, shattering whatever is responsible for this moment. Sam's already ruined too much. Dean doesn't let up either, gaining new confidence and knowledge of Sam. He pushes through every wall Sam's built, leaving no room in mind, body, or heart for anything else.

Dean's hips grind up, rocking Sam's ass against the wall. Letting Dean take some of his weight, Sam inches down, his skin burning with the friction between the wall and his shirt.

"Sammy," Dean exhales, "d'you want more?"

Sam lets his teeth do the talking, working his mouth over Dean's chin. He can feel how ragged Dean's breath has become, pretty sure his own lungs are having a hard time catching up. Dean hisses, the sound unexpectedly hot.

"What do you think?" Sam says, one hand reaching around to grab Dean's ass and reel them closer together.

"Are you sure?"

Sam takes drastic measures to put an end to the questions, spinning them until they hit the couch. He doesn't let go of Dean, grappling his brother into the cushions exactly the way he'd imagined. Not entirely positive this isn't a dream, Sam keeps Dean's lips within reach, sparing one gentle kiss to obliterate Dean's doubt. Dean's mouth opens on the next breath and Sam is there to push his tongue in and assert control.

Hands begin to wander off-course; Sam gets Dean's jacket off after an awkward series of aborted attempts. They overbalance, tip against the back of the couch and remain propped there, knee-to-knee and chest-to-chest.

Neither of them are rushing to get naked, overwhelmed just by the experience. It's so far beyond Sam's ability to comprehend, he has to surrender control to his body.

They undress to t-shirts and jeans, no need to show off. Sam's always appreciated Dean's body and right now he's confident that he'll be getting his hands on it soon, but he settles for kicking off his shoes as Dean does the same. Sam has spent well over a year wining-and-dining his right hand in order to score some action so he's hard and ready to go.

They topple flat, rolling in the space they're allowed, taking turns on top. With only a few minutes of experience to go on, Sam is hard-pressed to judge which sensation he likes more. Trapped beneath Dean's chest, Sam's at his brother's mercy, waiting with delicious anticipation for any kind of touch. Gaining the upper hand, forcing Dean's elbows back into the cushions, Sam feasts on the spread of skin laid out for him.

Sam's mouth gets caught in a wanderlust, moving away from Dean's lips to explore the hard cut of his brother's jaw, sweaty skin over his throat. He's not quite sure how Dean should taste on his tongue, lapping over his body to pick up whatever traces it can, wondering if Michael...no, Sam refuses to think about the archangel. Dean has a new obligation here and now.

Dean takes advantage of Sam's lapse to muscle him down, lying heavy between Sam's spread knees. Every roll of his hips is unnecessary foreplay, pushing more blood into Sam's dick. There's no way for Dean to miss his erection, and Sam knows it's not a gun he feels when Dean rides the groove of Sam's hip. He can't wait to get his hands on Dean, knowing full well what he's packing.

"C'mon, Sam." Dean arches over him, bellies pressed together. "You've gotta— _unh_! Sam.."

Sam's heard Dean having sex—listened to him come in countless motel rooms—but having those filthy-high sounds flowing right into his ear does unspeakable things to his anatomy.

Sam doesn't ask permission, just shoves his hand down to open their jeans. Dean gives him little room to work and Sam's unable to strip either of them further. Sam can't even see Dean's cock, just feels the hot, dry skin rubbing against him. Too dry. Dean's the first to lick his palm, mixed saliva adding wetness to the friction. Sam reaches down while Dean's tongue curls around the rim of his ear. If Sam doesn't get off, he's going to die and Dean's sharp rocking isn't quite getting him there. A quick push, careful to avoid getting tripped up by his jeans, Sam levers up. He flips Dean onto his back, Sam's thighs wide across Dean's thighs.

Dean hisses. "Damn!"

"No good?"

"Fuck, Sam," he grates out, Sam getting bitey along his shoulders and collarbone. "Keep going."

Sam uses one arm to prop himself up, the other to push their dicks against one another. Rolling and writhing into the heat and pressure, Sam doesn't stand a chance. He'd almost be embarrassed but Dean's body jolts, coming between them just as Sam is losing his mind.

Reality strikes back as Dean's come dries on Sam's stomach and vice-versa. Dean's face pinches at the state they're in. "Got a towel?"

Sam wants to laugh. Or kick something. Those are not the first words he wanted to hear after rubbing off on his brother's crotch.

Dean must catch the twitch in his smile. "Sorry," he says, "but this is gross."

Sam scowls but he's right. His zipper is covered with come and it gets in the way of his trembling fingers. Sam goes unzipped to reduce the risk of an unfortunate accident.

Dean's counting the stitches in his jeans, or something else completely useless, when Sam comes back with a dishtowel.

"Birds?" Dean looks at the cross-stitch on the fabric. "Classy."

"Someone here really liked birds," Sam grumbles. He's waiting for a crack to appear, some great chasm yawning between them. Or, for a fury of light to swallow him whole for defiling Dean—Michael's pure vessel.

Pure. Yeah, right. Sam snorts and Dean crooks one eyebrow.

No signs of condemnation rain down on them, nothing but the chirp of a cricket outside Sam's window and Dean's breathing. There are hundreds of things Sam is 'okay with' that would boil the blood of normal people. Sleeping with Dean should not count as one of those, but his body disagrees, keeping Sam's pulse thrumming at a careful rate and tamping down on any unnecessary panicking.

"You're gonna crack something in that damn skull of yours." Dean absently scratches his crotch, jeans refastened but definitely still sensitive. Sam is squirming. "I can hear the wheels spinning."

"You can't tell me you're not thinking about this."

Dean exaggerates his stretch, arms, hands and fingers all reaching for the ceiling. "I shorted something in my brain back there."

Back where Sam rode Dean's thigh to get off. Right. Sam's head is like a ball of knotted wires he can't begin to sort.

"Yeah, Dean—"

"Listen," Dean says, licking his lip and stopping when Sam stares too intently. "Let's skip the part where we have to dissect this, okay? Seriously, I'm good right now. Are you good?"

"Mostly."

Dean laughs. "I'll take that." He rubs over his jaw, skin reddened from Sam's mouth and teeth. Again, Sam's eyes catch on the unintentionally seductive movement. "A beer or two probably wouldn't hurt either."

"It's not even noon," Sam bothers to point out.

"Yeah, well it's not every day we—"

Sam jumps. "Two beers coming right up."

Dean snorts and Sam makes his second not-so-grand escape from the living room.

Two beers turn into four; four into six. Mouths open as easily as their bottles and Sam spends a good half-hour failing to stifle his laughter.

"Seriously, they bicker and whine like twelve year olds. Cas and Michael make us look totally functional."

"I'm pretty sure angels don't whine," Sam says, grinning so wide his cheeks sting with the stretch.

"After you've had one riding your ass, making you into some kind of redemption poster-boy, we can talk."

"I'll pass, thanks."

Their carefully constructed wall of beer bottles catches the sun, spilling brown and green patches of light onto the kitchen floor. Stained glass for alcoholics.

"So, the seals..."

"We're getting closer," Dean says, adding another empty to the wall. "For every seal we rebuild, I don't know, it's like Lucifer gets a little weaker. We've locked away some of his power. 'Course, a wounded animal's gonna fight even harder. He's getting desperate."

That's reflected in Sam's nightmares. Lucifer's threats have been less veiled and more targeted. A wounded animal may be dangerous, but a wounded Devil is deadly.

"I don't suppose you could let me out to help."

Dean grins, thinking it's a joke, but his expression immediately goes rigid.

"Shit, Sam. No way. Lucifer'd sniff you out the second you left, angelic mojo on your ribs or not. I can't—"

"I know." Sam knew the answer before he asked.

Dean hums and pops the cap off his bottle. Sam really— _really_ —doesn't want to be the one circling the inevitable, but if he waits any longer Dean's going to be drunk.

"I nearly thought you weren't coming back this year."

"Did you think something was gonna happen to me?"

"Come on, Dean. You're not that dense."

"Says you," he huffs. "You know, I'm as big on not talking as I was a couple hours ago."

"Yeah, I figured," Sam says. This isn't at the top of his to-do list either. "But I don't want to spend the rest of the day wondering, so can't you just tell me?"

"Okay," Dean responds tersely. "I was a little freaked out last year when you laid one on me," Dean admits, looking absolutely uncomfortable. Sam sympathizes—he'd much rather be making out on the couch. "What can I say? I got into it."

"You seemed more than a _little_ into it this morning," Sam points out.

Dean's affronted. "I didn't expect it, but that doesn't mean I don't want it."

Sam won't ask why he feels that way, or for how long it'll last. Any reason Dean offers will pale in comparison to the taboo of their relationship. For Sam, it's enough that Dean wants this and if Sam spends too much time thinking, he'll miss important things like Dean standing up. He comes to Sam's side, pulling his chin up and laying another kiss on his lips.

"Just wanted to make sure I was being clear."

"Yeah, I got it," Sam says, and leans up again.

Hours later, they've accomplished next to nothing. Sam's perfectly fine with that. The appeal of making out is leaps and bounds ahead of talking and the bed is twice as comfortable.

The situation goes from good to amazing, then straight off the top of the charts when Dean strips off his shirt and has Sam do the same. Sam stretches out over Dean and folds his tongue into Dean's mouth, so deeply entangled already. Chin-to-chin, Sam could waste hours just grinding down. Dean is palming at his chest, lightly slapping and grabbing his pecs.

"I'm not a girl," Sam complains.

"A big, giant girl." Dean curls up, hands roughly scratching up Sam's torso, thumbs catching on his nipples.

Sam's mouth goes dry. "Says the one on his back."

The pawing is surprisingly arousing and Sam presses into it. Curious to return the touch, he drops his chest to Dean's, lets his teeth dig into the hard muscle below Dean's tattoo. To say Dean likes that is a massive understatement, and he wraps his fingers in Sam's hair to tug him back and forth. Biting across Dean's chest, Sam detours to tongue around his raised nipples.

"Now who's the girl?" All that reddened skin is driving Sam nuts.

"Shut up." Dean yanks him back into a kiss.

They can take their time now that the edge has been dulled. Sam's more than happy to get his hands all over Dean. He only manages to unbutton Dean's jeans before he's distracted again by Dean's wet mouth, laid open and waiting for Sam's tongue. He's never kissed someone so thoroughly in his life.

Dean's cock is a sight where it lies half hard on his lower abdomen, framed by light hair and Dean's pushed-down boxers. Sam's half-out of his jeans, sitting astride Dean's left thigh. His knee pushes up against Dean's crotch and he shimmies against it with tiny pulses of his hips. He's oddly enthralled as Dean's cock gets harder with every thrust while he benefits from Dean's thick thigh digging up against his own balls. Dean stares when Sam unzips his jeans and gets his dick in hand, jumping as blood fills it and the muscles wake up.

"Fuck, Sam—"

"You think this is hot?" Sam strokes himself, maintains his rhythm between Dean's legs. "You like just watching?"

"Yeah." Dean's not embarrassed and Sam's flattered, bringing himself off right there. He wants Dean to see him come, helped along with the added stimulation of Dean's hand flexing on Sam's ass. It's a powerful touch—the thrill of having a strong partner—and demanding as if Dean could force the pleasure out of him at any moment. Dean waits for him to reach his climax, expression eager to see Sam at his most heated. Sam jerks and falls forward, coming on Dean's stomach for the second time.

"Sam—" Dean's needy moans bring him back, his solid cock twitching against Sam's belly. A splash of Sam's come is there on the crown, tempting Sam when he gathers himself enough to get a fist around Dean. Stroking up, twisting around, Sam brings his palm up to lick off Dean's sweat mixed with his own come. Dean's face goes bright red and Sam files every reaction away for later.

"Almost...almost, oh! Fuck, yeah. There—right there."

He's getting hard again from listening. Dean's come shoots over Sam's hand with little warning beyond Dean's thighs clenching around Sam's leg. His eyes don't budge as Dean releases with curses and shakes. So fucking hot—Sam's ready to go right there.

"Again?"

"Mmhmm." Sam glides up Dean's body, lets their come squish between their bellies. After this round, neither one of them opens their mouth to call it gross. Sam's renewed interest is obvious and Dean's mouth meets his in a deep, delving kiss that says Dean's pretty down with that plan.

"Best afternoon ever."

It takes a lot of convincing—most of it on Dean's part—to get Sam to leave the house again. Sex makes Dean hungry, no surprise there, and hunger makes him bossy. Having three orgasms in the span of an afternoon is going to make social interaction awkward. Half of Sam's sex-addled brain is still stuck in the bedroom.

Sam makes up a 'no groping' rule for the truck as soon as they get in; Dean has issues controlling his nomadic hands. This late in the afternoon, the diner's empty except for Eric and Riley. There's a book of crosswords open next to Eric's ketchup-streaked plate, his current page half-filled.

Eric takes one look at pair of them and grins. "Feeling alright, Sam?"

"I'm good," he says as Dean nudges past him. "Really good."

"I figured." Eric's smirk has always been one of Sam's favorite things and it's out in full force.

"I'm so sorry about earlier," Riley says, running over to Dean. "That was so rude of me, and I don't know what Mitch was thinking, but it's hard for us, you know?"

Though he's more comfortable with only Eric and Riley for company, Dean shuffles under her regard. "Yeah, sorry I couldn't give you answers. I know it's rough."

Dean assures her that there's no need, but Riley apologizes by making him the thickest burger Sam's ever seen, a rainbow of toppings and condiments between the buns. Since the fry cooker is one of the only appliances Riley lets him use, Sam chops potatoes and makes enough french fries to feed everyone in Bells Pond. Eric steals a hot and salty handful when Sam sets the platter on the counter.

"Sam told me that you used to be a cop." Dean leans on the counter to see Eric on the other side of Sam.

"A detective, actually."

"I'm surprised you and Sam get along so well. He and I were never really what you'd consider upstanding citizens."

"That so?" Sam can tell Eric's teasing, a spark in his cornflower blue eyes. "His record couldn't have been too bad if they let him in this place."

"You'd think." Sam jumps in.

"Hey, I was on the force for over a decade. I'd be the first to tell you that there's a difference between breaking the law and being a criminal," Eric says thoughtfully, more to Sam than Dean. "Sometimes you have to do crazy things, and sometimes," he sighs, "you don't have a choice. Hell, I watched my entire city fall apart. People were doing all sorts of horrible things, and none of it was really _them_."

Eric's story is one Sam knows well, how he'd witnessed countless horrors while his friends, and even his partner of nearly a decade, were ripped apart by what Sam's pretty sure was the Croatoan virus. Eric had been the lone uninfected survivor, not an accomplishment to be proud of. On one of his first nights with Sam years ago, Eric recalled barricading himself in the police station for days with dwindling supplies and next-to-no ammunition. Exhaustion had claimed him before any of the Croats could, and he was positive he'd died, finally able to meet his fellow officers. But, in a familiar ending, Eric had woken up in Bells Pond.

"Whatever you did," Eric's only talking to Sam now. "I know you had your reasons. You're more than okay in my book."

Dean turns away, aware of the moment between Sam and Eric.

If Dean weren't part of Sam's life, he and Eric could have—actually, Sam can't go down this road of thought because Dean is a part of his life and always has been. He and Eric never stood a chance but Sam loves him regardless, his friendship is precious and rare. Even in this messed up place where reality can't catch up, Sam would have fallen apart many times over without him.

"Man, I totally had the right idea coming here." Dean cleans his plate, minutes away from settling into a food coma.

Riley sneaks around up to Sam's side and he swings an arm around her narrow shoulders. "Thanks for dinner."

"You don't have to say that every time," she says, cheeks as pink as ever.

"You also don't have to cook for us all the time," Eric chimes in, "but you do."

"I wouldn't know what else to do with myself." Her head settles on Sam's shoulder for a moment and she sighs. "Are you gonna be here in the morning, Dean?"

"I'm not too sure." He looks to Sam. "But we'll try. If not—"

"If not, then I'm glad you came back tonight," she finishes. Surprising Sam and Dean, Riley ducks away from Sam and gives Dean a hug before grabbing her bag and heading out.

Dean watches her disappear into the ever-darkening evening. "Is she gonna be alright walking?"

"Her place isn't far."

Eric grins. "And with angels hand-picking our residents, we don't exactly have a lot of crime to worry about."

They all laugh at that. The diner goes quiet, Sam flicking his fingers impatiently against the counter top. When Eric gets up to leave, Sam jumps to help him shut off the last of the appliances and finally the lights.

Outside, Eric shakes Dean's hand and declines a ride, opting to walk like Riley had. "Knowing my luck, Ames will drop by along the way and follow me home. He keeps the weirdest hours."

"You like it," Sam tells Eric as they walk to his truck. "Maybe we'll see you in the morning."

"Maybe, but you guys have a good night." He winks and Sam knocks him on the arm.

Dean's waiting behind the wheel of the old Ford, fingers tapping an absent rhythm.

"He's a good guy."

"Yeah, he is." Sam watches Eric walk quickly down the road, hands hidden in his pockets.

"If you and he—I mean, if you want, I can—"

"Dean." Sam hops in the passenger, ignoring the sudden pang when he misses the Impala's Sam-sized front seat. "Shut up, and let's go."

Everything is different in the dark, a desperate edge along which they grope with hands and hearts.

Dean looms naked over him, warm breath on Sam's collarbone. He hasn't uttered an intelligible word since they came back to the bedroom and he'd stripped slowly—as sensuously as someone like Dean can manage—for Sam.

Tonight is about sensation, learning what it feels like to have Dean's lips traipsing idly over every part of his body, never quite reaching to where Sam needs him the most and yet never trespassing since it all belongs to him. It's about connection and divining what each of Dean's touches signify. Dean lies back, draws lazy strokes down his chest and up his cock. Leaning across, Sam finds the beat under the skin, uses his mouth to chase Dean's pulse from his heart to his ear. What he whispers there might be nonsense, secrets he's never shared—Sam doesn't care so long as the words are kept between them.

The morning approaches with every breath; Sam tries not to waste a single one. Sand drains from their hourglass and Sam's touches begin to dig harder in desperation. Dean's fingers tighten behind Sam's neck, roping them together as their tongues lash in Dean's mouth. Passion kinetic and unstoppable with nothing between them, just hands on each other as they fold open on the bed. Dean's fist around Sam's cock is maddening; it's nearly impossible to keep his own grip going on Dean at the same time. They share the same breath, trading oxygen back and forth on their tongues.

This time when they fall apart, Sam understands that only Dean is ever going to be able to put him back together. Like they're the only two souls stuck somewhere, trapped and dependent so there's no longer one without the other. The idea that Dean's going to be ripped away—again and again until this is over—isn't new for Sam, but it's more terrifying than ever.

He clings to Dean, and Dean to him, promising not to waste even a minute by sleeping. Dean pulls him back for another kiss just to make sure.

March 29th

Sam and Dean don't make it to the diner the next morning—they don't even get out of bed. Sam watches Dean stretch as the sun comes up, something so graceful and feline in the long pull of his muscles. Then, Dean smacks his lips together and the graceful illusion is ruined. Food can wait, Sam thinks as he flops over onto Dean's stomach.

"Careful," Dean groans sleepily. "I'm sensitive."

"Liar," Sam rolls his forehead against Dean's chest.

He doesn't bother asking Dean to stay; Sam's already thinking to a year from now when he can have this again. Less time if the war ends.

"I'm sorry I've got to do this," Dean says after a moment of quiet. Sam goes still.

"Is this almost over?"

"I don't know," Dean says. "I freakin' hope so, Sammy. It's going a lot faster since I know you're safe."

"Just be careful," Sam mutters with his lips still attached to Dean's chest. He expects Dean to laugh and sure enough he feels the slight rumble beneath him.

If there were anything profound to say, they've said it already, spoken it with their eyes and touches. The only thing remaining for Sam to do is kiss Dean until the room goes hot. He withstands the heat of the heavenly light and doesn't pull away until his lips meet nothing but air.

March 1st

"I'm not sure this is legal."

Eric tucks in his shirt after using Riley's iron to press out the wrinkles.

"Riley and Mitch don't care," Sam says. "They just want to get married."

"So why do I have to be the priest?" Eric asks. The shirt pulls tautly across his shoulders, slightly too small.

"I've never been to a wedding in my life. At least you have some idea of what to say." Sam double-checks his own shirt, smoothing the front and tucking it under his belt. A priest's costume would come in handy right now, Sam thinks. "Plus, you're a detective and that's sort of official."

They have no suitable venue for a wedding so they've gathered at Riley's house for a make-shift ceremony. Eric paces in the kitchen, barely tolerant of Sam's giddy amusement.

"If we were back in Sacramento, I'd have to arrest myself."

Sam laughs and that finally snaps Eric out of his funk. Mitch is waiting outside where everyone has gathered, the weather a pleasant surprise on this late, winter day. Sam imagines that to be the contribution of their absent angel. Anthony has accomplished wonders in Riley's yard, his big hands taming the overgrowth and coaxing the landscape into early spring growth. The youngest resident had stumbled on his niche in their world; his gift had lain in his hands all along. Anthony whispers to nature, spilling his well-guarded secrets to plants who lock them safely away, growing under his confidence. With Gus's trellised archway, Riley and Mitch have the best setting they're going to get.

"I'll arrest you later," Sam jokes, tugging on Eric's sleeve. "Let's go."

"Can you believe Riley's doing this?" They walk to the backyard in their cleanest clothes; no one has anything formal to wear.

"I get it," Sam says. "I mean, who knows how long we're gonna be here."

"Yeah." Eric hesitates at the back door. The first floor's set up for the party afterward, enough food and drink for the entire town. Fitting, as the majority are in attendance, everyone already in the yard with the exception of Riley—getting ready with Sara and Lena, a new arrival who'd helped Riley alter one of her old dresses—and Sam and Eric.

"You ready, Father?" Sam expects the smack Eric lands on his shoulder.

"Shut up, Sam."

Riley is a pile of giggles and affection by the end of the night, hanging off of Mitch's arm and spinning around her living room. Mitch is equally happy, the deep-set of his brows easing as he dances around with his new wife. They don't care that Eric's ceremony won't count a lick outside of Bells Pond; it means so much here, to all of them.

Hanging off to the side of the impromptu dance floor, Sam nurses a beer and watches the last guests taking advantage of every moment they're together. He's humbled at the number of people he now counts as friends. Riley and Mitch, incandescent in their simple happiness, laughing together. Anthony, leaning in the corner, silent but engaged, eying Sara and Annabel with a brotherly interest. Eric had been pulled onto the floor with Lena, her short blond hair swinging about her ears. She'd lived in Montreal before Bells Pond and she'd adjusted well, her accented laughter ringing around the room tonight. Keeping an eye on everything, Gus has settled in to enjoy the rest of the night.

Eric's cheeks are red with a healthy flush when he comes back from his spin around the room.

"Tired already?"

"Lena was trying to wear me out," Eric says. "Is that beer for me?"

Sam passes over the second bottle he'd opened. The music drops to a slower tempo as the night winds to a close. The last guests leave while Riley and Mitch continue to sway in the center of her living room, fittingly more enthralled with each other and no one minds.

With millions of stars, the heavens open wide on the clear night. Eric and Sam walk along empty roads until they come to Eric's turn.

"You were right," Eric says.

"Hmm?"

"I know why Riley did it. We have to take whatever we can get, I guess." He kicks a stone across the road, Sam hears the rustle of the grass where it falls. "Do you think we'll ever get out of here?"

"Anything's possib—"

"Don't, Sam," Eric interrupts, no real threat in his tone. "You know more about what's going on than any of us. I'd bet that's because of Dean and whatever he's involved with."

"Eric, there's so much," Sam sighs. "I'd need years to tell you everything that I know, but it wouldn't make living here better or worse. There's nothing we can do."

"What if this is it?" Eric continues. "If the world goes to hell out there, and we're stuck in here, what happens?"

Sam has asked that question a thousand times and never uncovered a satisfying answer. "I'm not sure, but I know that if we do get out of here someday, it'll be because of what Dean's doing right now."

Eric crooks his brow, stares across the road at Sam. "You have so much faith in him, huh?"

"I have to," Sam answers. He has more than enough faith in Dean, holding onto what Dean won't allow for himself.

"Well, I guess you're coming over tonight."

"What?" Sam looks over. "Eric—"

"If explaining this to me is going to take years, there's no time like the present to get started." Eric spins on his heel and walks off in the direction of his ranch leaving Sam no real choice but to follow. Millions of light years away, the stars wink as if they support Eric's resolve.

>  _His reflection is beautiful, not a single line to mar the exquisite composition of his face. Sam's invincible. He's pleased to see how little his appearance has changed, remaining young and strong in spite of his exile._
> 
>  _This is what Dean sees, what captured Eric from their first meeting. Attraction and charisma, wrapped in flawless skin, intelligent eyes crowning his handsome face. A face that could bring the world to its knees._
> 
>  _The mirror ripples, the distortion running from corner to corner of the great wall of glass. His reflection remains but the difference is immediately apparent. Stubble detracts from the angle of his jaw, throwing unattractive shadows on his neck and shoulders. Weary eyelids hanging lower than they used to, hoods pulled down over his dull hazel eyes. Lines, some fine and others deep, map across his face like a subway diagram._
> 
>  _This is Sam Winchester, hunter, worn down by the inevitable march of time._
> 
>  _"I know, I know. That was a dirty trick."_
> 
>  _Sam spins and sees himself in another mirror; except the lips on this reflection are moving._
> 
>  _"You're getting old, Sam. How does that feel?"_
> 
>  _"It's better than the alternative."_
> 
>  _"Says you. Look at your face."_
> 
>  _The reflection speaking to Sam is as gorgeous as the first one he'd seen, sleek and virile._
> 
>  _The Devil steps through the mirror as if it's merely fog. He no longer wears Sam's face; Sam doesn't recognize this vessel but it's clearly not as high-line of a model as Lucifer is used to. The wear-and-tear is obvious, a tic in the vessel's movements like shorts in the wiring. This man was not meant to wear the Devil. It's a small victory for Sam, the knowledge that Lucifer has been forced to jump vessels for so long._
> 
>  _"Oh, I could go on like this for a long time." Lucifer fishes the thought from Sam's mind. "That's not the plan, of course, but I have plenty of vessels lined up and ready to go."_
> 
>  _"Have fun with that," Sam says._
> 
>  _"I'd rather have my fun with you," the Devil says. "Imagine what it would be like to never age, never having to see your own skin reject your aging body. You'd be beautiful for eternity, and Dean—"_
> 
>  _Sam looks up sharply. "Dean doesn't care."_
> 
>  _"About himself, no. Obviously. But about you, well, that's different." Lucifer stalks around him, the mirrors duplicating his presence. His eyes are lit from within, incongruous with the rest of the body he's inhabiting. Sam wonders what happened to the man's real eyes. "I already offered to give you Dean, but I see you tackled him on your own. Well done," he winks. "But what is Dean going to think when he sees you like this?"_
> 
>  _The Devil doesn't give Sam the chance to reiterate his point. "You think he won't care, but time has not been as hard on him, thanks to Michael. Dean's body is a temple, Sam. Yours is a drive-thru."_
> 
>  _"You bastard—"_
> 
>  _"Ah-ah. I'm afraid our time's up—"_

  


March 28th

"What happened to you?"

Dean shows up on time, fortunately in one piece, but looking like he hasn't eaten or slept in weeks. He's gaunt, pulled in so many directions it stretches his skin, with blurry pupils. But then he smiles and Sam forgets to his concern for the time being.

"I deserve a better hello than that."

"Do you?" Sam bitches. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"You're the only one complaining." Really, Sam wants nothing more than to drag Dean into the bedroom and shut him up with his dick but he can't, not with Dean looking like this. "C'mon, I can't get a more enthusiastic welcome?"

"How about breakfast? I'm starving." Food usually works on Dean, though having sex with each other hasn't always been an option. Clearly it ranks well above food in Dean's mind, probably above rest and recuperation, too.

"I bet I can distract you from that," Dean offers but his stomach growls in sync with Sam's. He's caught.

"Food first," Sam insists. "Then you'll get your enthusiasm."

"You're not the boss."

"It's my house."

"Yeah, well I'm older."

In the span of a year Dean's reverted to acting like a brat. Petulance doesn't exactly get Sam's motor running.

"C'mon, Dean. Just eat something, 'cause you look like crap."

"You're such a mood killer," Dean whines.

"Maybe I just don't want to break you."

"As if you could." Dean snorts. "It looks like you've really let yourself go. Are you sure you can handle me, Sammy?"

"Funny, now eat," Sam says, more harshly than he intends. He swears he catches the tail-end of a laugh deep within his own mind. "Then I'll show you just how much I've let myself go."

Dean pulls a face but eats the toast in record time. It's disgusting and very messy, sadly neither of which get Sam going. But when Dean's finished and licking the crumbs from his fingers with an unnecessary spectacle of tongue, Sam's beginning to reconsider.

"Something wrong?" Dean smirks. Bastard.

Looking five-times better now than he had when he'd walked into the house, Dean grins and spreads his thighs on the wooden chair, denim pulled obscenely over his crotch.

They don't last much longer in the kitchen.

"Where the fuck did you learn that?"

Sam's arms quaver and can't hold him up. He goes down boneless next to Dean.

"I've got all that free time they give me between seals," Dean pants, mouth stretched at the corners as if his lips miss Sam's dick. That had been a surprise—Sam was barely naked before his brother reeled him in by the hips and went to town. "Motels still have porn, you know. A guy has needs." Dean chuckles. "It gets a little awkward if Michael and Cas are around, but that's good for entertainment."

"I'll bet." Sam's embarrassed to admit that he needs time to recover. He makes a good effort, replaying how Dean looked just a few minutes ago. His face red, eyes on Sam while he pushed his mouth further onto Sam—almost too far—and drew out his orgasm with moves Sam had never even fantasized. Apparently, motel-porn had really stepped up its game during the Apocalypse.

"Am I doing all the work here?" Dean's eyes flash. He grins, tongue peeking out to lick the corner of his mouth.

Drained or not, Sam's got to wipe that grin off his face. When he rolls, he takes Dean with him, straight over onto his belly. Dean's broad back is laid out below him: pale freckled shoulders, the play of bone beneath skin. Sam grips Dean between his knees, pins him with hands beside Dean's shoulders. At that angle the sun diffracts through the window, a glare in Sam's eyes. He bends lower. Out of the sun, closer to Dean, Sam is hotter. He draws his nose across dry skin, picks up on generic soap and well-worn cotton.

"Do I smell that good?"

Sam's paused at Dean's nape, lips combing the fine, short hairs. Heavy deep breaths raise Sam up when he lets Dean take more of his weight.

"Gonna do something while you're up there?" Turned on the pillow, Dean's lips are reachable. Sam stretches out to lick across, wet them before pushing inside. Dean goes up on his elbows and Sam flows with the arch of his back.

"I'm thinking about it." Rubbing his body against Dean, Sam traces patterns across his neck and shoulders, bites into hard muscles and feels them tense. "Are you in a rush?"

"Mmm, no." Dean angles for another kiss. "I like what you're doing."

All the way down Dean's spine, Sam's nomadic mouth never settles for long. Into the curve and over his tailbone, Sam slides back until his mouth hovers at Dean's hips. He sees Dean holding his breath, Sam's exhales hitting hot and low. Closer, Sam's lips just touching Dean's ass, and his brother jolts.

"Sam—"

"I know." He's not quite ready for that either. There's no disappointment from either of them, and besides, Sam has always been creative.

In this position there are so many possibilities. Sam loves Dean under him, seeing his body stretch and go taut beneath Sam's hands, the movements almost telling Sam what he needs to do. His mouth returns to Dean's neck, marks already developing under the skin.

It's hot between Dean's thighs where Sam's cock slides and nudges against Dean's balls. The pressure spurs Dean back; he pushes into the friction.

"Stay put," Sam orders, mouth there at Dean's temple.

Dean throws his head back so Sam's lips caress his cheek. "I thought it was my turn."

"Be patient and it will be."

Dean's shiver courses through both of them, down to their knees. He opens his mouth to say something else but Sam is ready, there pressing two fingers against Dean's lips. He opens without asking, sucks and rubs his tongue around Sam's knuckles and up over his nails, pressure so delicious that Sam's the one moaning gutturally. Sam's hips drive his dick up at the same time.

When his fingers can't get any wetter, Sam pulls them away, leaves saliva on Dean's lips. Gently, but pining Dean with his other palm flat against Dean's shoulder, Sam hooks his dripping fingers against his brother's ass, light pressure on his hole but Dean gasps, hitching away from then back into the touch.

Sam tucks his fingers under, over furled skin and muscle, down to the soft, sweaty space behind Dean's balls. They're heavy, full with the same weight as Sam's, and downy-soft with fine hairs. He wants to squeeze his face in close, feel them on his tongue and between his lips, but Dean's fast approaching that desperate edge, muscles shifting under Sam's hand. Stroking his fingers back up, catching on Dean's rim and lingering only for a second.

He whispers low, almost to himself. "Next time, Dean. I want you..."

"Sam—" Dean groans, scrambling onto his hands and knees when Sam lets off his shoulders. "Yeah, Sammy. Come on..."

Still rutting against Dean's ass, Sam wraps his hands around his brother's hips, one going further to fist Dean's cock. With his fingers still wet and catching Dean's precome, it's easy and gratifying to twist and stroke, pulling and pushing for Dean's pleasure.

The sun continues to rise and throw bright patterns onto their skin, heating them in a different way. Dean's hand whips back, slaps at Sam's thigh—they both up the pace: Dean bouncing off Sam's thighs, into his fist, and Sam up between Dean's legs.

Dean comes first, hips stuttering forward, knuckles white on the sheets. Sam holds out until Dean collapses on his stomach, face angled back to watch. His come lands on the sinuous curve of Dean's spine, drops caught in a patch of sunlight. Then Sam's knocked out too, falling beside Dean just like he had when this started.

The quiet pervades as their breathing calms, lying side by side on the edge of the bed, away from any uncomfortable stickiness.

"Now that's the kind of welcome I was talking about." Dean smiles into the light, tiny shadows in the fine furrows at the corners of his eyes.

"I'll try and remember that." And Sam moves in for a kiss that tells Dean exactly how badly he was missed.

"I can't believe it's been five years."

Dean doesn't look up right away. The thought had come to Sam out of nowhere; he's been away from the war for half a decade. Time hasn't passed easily, but Dean has weathered far better. Lucifer had been right; Sam wakes up feeling depleted but Dean, after a few meals and a healthy round of sex, is back in form.

They're eating an early lunch, grilled-cheese sandwiches, on Sam's porch. March had come in like a lamb and seems to be going out the same way, unseasonable weather perfect for spending time outside. Even while they're not in bed, Sam doesn't let a moment pass without looking at Dean, a yearly ritual to memorize his face for the long months ahead.

"Time flies, huh?"

"At least you're doing something," Sam says. "How's that going, by the way?"

"The seals?" It's muffled as Dean chews and swallows, taking bigger bites than a person should. "Okay."

"Shitty answer," Sam says. "Do I have to ask a certain way or something? How was work this year, _dear_?"

"It's got a nice ring to it." Dean wolfs down another chunk of his sandwich and tilts his chin towards he house. "How about grabbing me a beer so I don't get thirsty?"

"How about you tell me before I turn you into my little housewife?" Sam adds an inappropriate emphasis on _little_. "Are you still winning?"

Dean finishes the sandwich and rubs the crumbs off his mouth with his sleeve. "We're gettin' ahead of the curve, going after some unpredictable ones to throw the demons off our tails. Cas thinks we've gained back a lot of ground."

"I'm surprised Michael's giving you time to sleep."

"Yeah," Dean sighs, "but if it's working I don't want to mess with a good thing. I want to get this over with."

"It's not worth it if you get yourself killed because you're exhausted."

"That's why I come here," Dean says. "My yearly dose of R and R."

"One day—yeah, that's a great vacation, Dean."

Dean doesn't speak up to defend the break-neck pace of his work again. In the same position, Sam might not either; the sooner the seals are replaced, the faster the walls around Bells Pond come down. Sam still has trouble believing they've both managed to keep it together—more or less, Sam admits.

"I never thought we'd make it this long, you know?"

"You mean alive?" Dean swipes an errant glob of cheese off his plate with his index finger; he wraps his tongue around it and Sam swallows hard. "I gotta say, I never thought we would either."

"Not just that, but with this entire deal. I didn't think I was gonna last here."

Two dragonflies zip by in tandem, buzzing around the porch to bask in the afternoon sun.

"I can see why you did it," Sam keeps the momentum. "If it were me, and Michael made the offer, I probably would have said yes on the spot just to save you."

"I didn't make the deal right away." Dean stares off into the fields. "I mean, it's not like Michael showed me the cards and had me signing up right there."

"I thought he made you an 'offer-you-can't-refuse' kind of deal."

"He did. And like the idiot everyone seems to think I am, I refused."

Sam had thought there was nothing left to surprise him, but Dean pops this out of the box.

"Well, I refused the first time."

"What changed your mind?" Sam wonders aloud.

"Something Bobby's wife said to me."

"Karen?" Sam interrupts. "When did you talk to—oh." He remembers Death's little sojourn in Sioux Falls so many years ago, resurrecting Bobby's wife and dozens of other regular people. "What did she tell you?"

Sam figures it would be less challenging to cross the boundary than to get something like this out of Dean. There's nothing to look at, but Dean's eyes settle far off.

"She told me that you're supposed to bring peace, not pain, to the people you care about," Dean sighs. "All I've ever really done since I found you at Stanford was bring you pain. Jessica and then Dad—finding out all that crap about our family. It was killing me, so I know it hurt you. Hell, Sammy, you _died_ in my arms!"

Dean steadies himself; the air is too thin for Sam to draw the breath he needs. Dean's voice, when it returns, has deceptively leveled.

"So that's why I took the deal."

Pride battles disappointment in Sam's mind. Dean's sacrifices are legendary, but they come from a place of self-loathing and flagellation, things Sam can't cure when he's granted one day a year. Hundreds of responses come to the tip of Sam's tongue, but each will draw the argument to new levels of pain. He compromises, saying the one thing that will settle Dean.

"Thank you."

He leaves it at that.

Later, Dean is too fucked out to move off of Sam's chest and Sam is too lazy to push him. The naked weight over his heart is a comfort after their earlier conversation and after their last round in bed, they deserve a little cuddling. Sam swallows his laugh, jostling Dean as his chest rumbles.

"Stop it," Dean complains, mouth in the shallow of Sam's collarbone.

"I was remembering what you said."

"Hmm?"

"You totally said you cared about me."

"Did I?" Dean yawns, rolling away to claim the second pillow. "I didn't mean it."

"Of course not." But Sam's smiling too wide for Dean to mistake.

A full meal must be waiting for them at the diner; Dean's arrival is predictable and Sam's positive that Riley wants to see him, to tell Dean the good news herself. Sam can't bring himself to move, less because of the lethargic weight of his well-used muscles than the idea of sharing Dean's time with other people. He's perfectly fine squandering Dean's day for himself, not sure Dean would even argue the point.

"Are you still having those dreams?"

"The good kind?" Sam teases. "Do you want to hear about them?"

Dean's smile is just shy of blissful; Sam's admirably finding his way around this relationship, so similar and yet so different from simply being brothers.

"You'll have to tell me later," Dean says. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant," Sam sits up against the headboard, able to look down at Dean's sleepy, discombobulated sprawl. "He tells me that he likes it up here." Sam taps his forehead, frowning.

"Anything new?"

"Because you want to know, or so you can tell Michael?" Sam asks flatly, immediately regretting his tone.

However, Dean's not fazed. His eyes shutter and tighten. "Even if I wanted to, I can't keep anything from Michael."

"I didn't mean—" Sam stops and kicks himself for never asking what he's about to. "He knows about us, right?"

Dean snorts. "He gets full-length replays."

That mental image is hilarious and Sam laughs for a second. Dean scoots closer to his legs, Sam resting a hand across the back of Dean's shoulders.

"Has he said anything about it?"

"He doesn't really have to," Dean says. "I can feel...when he's in the driver's seat, there's no way to tell my thoughts from his. I know everything he's thinking. He's not one-hundred percent on board with the incest thing, but he knows that it's none of his business. When I'm here, Michael might as well not even exist."

Dean's conviction isn't surprising but Sam falls over onto him, getting them tangled all over again. They don't find their way out of bed or to the diner for hours.

March 29th

Sam tries to rest, giving up when he can't catch more than a few threads of uneasy sleep. His thoughts are tightly-wound and ready to spring.

"Are we ever going to get beyond this?"

Dean's hand tucks further up under his pillow, raising his head to blink sleepily at Sam. "What?"

In the dark, Sam's thoughts are more focused. "This can't go on forever, so what happens after?"

"We'll be able to do whatever we want." Dean yawns.

"You say that," Sam says, staring over from his pillow. "But I don't know if it's possible."

"Anything's possible."

Sam understands why Eric balked when Sam had tried to say something similar. Sam knows better; not everything is possible, but he's certainly been surprised once or twice. After all, Dean is lying naked next to him and Sam is sore in entirely new ways.

"Hey." Dean rolls closer to Sam. "At least there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We haven't always had that."

The dark days in Sam's life outnumber the bright ones, but perhaps there's a chance to reverse that trend once Lucifer's no longer a blight in their world. Sam would pray if he thought it would help their cause.

"Life after the Apocalypse." Sam takes a deep breath. "That's gonna be quite a ride."

"We'll get there."

He trusts Dean. Sam's no longer a player, and Dean's word is all he has to go on, but he believes. The thought that his confinement in Bells Pond is going to end—that's a line Sam can't yet see beyond. Now that he's allowing himself to imagine, there are things he wants. He can't just drive away from the people he's met here, abandoning them to their fundamentally-changed lives as he'd done so many times in the past. Sam's life in the years to come may not be in Bells Pond—his life is in the Impala with Dean—but a part of him will always live here.

"You're still thinking." Dean rubs up against Sam's arm. He senses the smirk even in the dark. "I can think of a few ways around that."

They choose distraction, Dean moving on top of Sam and kissing his last thoughts into dust.  


>  _The garden is gone. Sam gropes his way through the pitch dark but finds nothing of substance. He knows it's a dream just like he knows he's not alone. Lucifer lurks in the blackest of the black; the Devil circles Sam like a vulture that's caught the scent of decay._
> 
>  _"Can't you feel that it's over, Sam?" Closer now. "Why hide when you can be out here enjoying my victory? It's only a matter of time until I find you. My brothers want to leave you trapped because you've been such a nuisance, but I'll come for you."_
> 
>  _"Don't bother." Sam's call echoes in the cloying air._
> 
>  _"You think Dean is coming back for you?" Something tingles up Sam's arm; he shrugs away. "Oh, did I forget to mention? Dean's finished."_
> 
>  _Sam spins, tries to find eyes or a face to focus his rage on. "You're lying."_
> 
>  _"Do I need to lie?" There's a light far off, nearly beyond the limits of Sam's sight. He stumbles in that direction. "My brother thought it was better to let Dean remain a human hero. His mistake cost him his precious vessel."_
> 
>  _Sam tries to block the words but Lucifer controls this place. Sam wouldn't be allowed to stop listening even if he ripped his own eardrums to shreds. Lucifer is the room, his breath slithering towards Sam from every direction._
> 
>  _"I'll find you soon," the Devil assures. "There won't be anyone left to fight me. I'll find your little hideaway and I'll destroy every single person I find along the way—everyone you care about and even the ones you don't. And then I'll come for you."_
> 
>  _Sam hasn't managed to get any closer to the light, unsure if he's stumbling in the right direction._
> 
>  _"You'll say yes because there will be nothing left for you to protect."_
> 
>  _When Sam still doesn't answer, the darkness lurches and the light Sam was reaching for is snuffed out._
> 
>  _"There's another way, Sam." The darkness moves down Sam's throat and chokes him. "Say yes right now and I can bring Dean to you exactly how he was. You can have him by your side. Do whatever you want with him. He can be your slave—he can be your lover. I promise you that he'll be safe."_
> 
>  _Sam can no longer breathe but Lucifer pays no mind. Sam's mind stutters, stuck on the promise that "he'll be safe"._
> 
>  _"Think about it, Sam," Lucifer whispers, hot putrid breath filling Sam's space._
> 
>  _He's running out of air..._

  


March 19th

Sam stalks up to the counter and grabs Eric's shoulder.

"When was the last time you saw Ames?"

Eric's startled, face blanked by surprise until Sam shakes him.

"It's been a few days," Eric says. "He told me..."

"What?" Sam reaches. "What did he say?"

"Not much. Sam, are you okay?"

They've attracted Riley's attention; she's staring at them carefully from the kitchen. Gus watches from the other end of the counter, his fork stuck on the way from his plate to his mouth.

"I'm not trying to scare you." Sam levels his voice, trying to keep his fingers from shaking on Eric's arm. "I just—I need to know what he said to you."

Eric takes a deep, measured breath as if it'll help Sam. "Just that he had something important to take care of, and that we should all be okay while he was gone."

"Is he coming back?"

"Yeah," Eric says softly. "Yeah, he said he was."

Sam wobbles onto the stool behind him and Eric's hands hold steady on Sam's knees. By then, Riley's made it out of the kitchen. His skin is clammy—unable to find warmth in the heated diner—and his throat ragged from shouting uselessly to the skies all morning. Ames had never showed.

"Jesus, Sam." Riley touches his arm gently but he flinches. "What's wrong? You're so pale."

"She means you look like shit," Eric adds gruffly.

"Thanks." Sam looks up. "Asshole."

"That's better." Eric's palms squeeze around Sam's legs and don't let go. "What the hell was that?"

"I just—" Sam can't get it out; the dream won't let him go. Darkness pools at the edge of his vision; one wrong move and Sam will be plunged into the black. He can't alarm anyone. "I had a bad feeling and I wanted to talk to Ames about it. I guess he's out of town for a while."

Riley's eyes are wide. "Hang on, I'll grab you some coffee."

When she's out of earshot, Eric leans towards Sam. "Was it one of those dreams?"

Sam nods, jerking his chin down to his chest.

"I've never seen you so messed up, Sam. What the hell did you see?"

Hell itself, he wants to say and would if Eric weren't already freaked out.

"I'll be okay." It's an amateur lie, but it's enough for Eric to sit back. Sam bottles his fear the best he can to keep it away from his friends. Riley fusses over him, topping off his coffee every few minutes, but Eric's stare lingers. Sam doubles his efforts to appear unconcerned.

The Devil may have no need to lie; it doesn't mean he hasn't botched or embellished the truth. Angels lie; it's an indisputable fact. The motives behind the lies are the only things setting them apart from demons.

Dean's not dead. Sam would know; a part of him imagines that they're so thoroughly connected, Sam would drop the instant Dean ceased to exist. Reality, he knows, is different, but the ripple of Dean's death would reach Sam even here.

When he finally leaves the diner, Sam does so with a full stomach, a wrapped lunch for later, and Eric on his heels.

"I told you," Sam insists. "I'm fine."

"I know." Eric shrugs, eyes unrepentant. "But I'm bored and without Ames around, I don't really want to hang out with Riley and Mitch all day. Plus, I'm too sore from yesterday to work with Gus again. So, you're taking me home with you."

Sam laughs. The effects of Eric's smirk are the same as they've always been and Sam's heart lightens enough for him to wave Eric towards the truck. They roll down the windows and drive from boundary to boundary just to waste time, eating Riley's lunch while they're parked in the field below the water tower. Its elongated shadow blankets the truck and keeps the sun's glare from heating the cab.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah." Sam doesn't lie this time around. The dream has lost its potency. By the time Sam drives them both to the house, he's forgotten it completely.

The oblivion lasts until Sam falls asleep.

March 28th

So early it can barely be considered morning, Sam drags himself into the kitchen. The sun is nothing more than a hint of gray-blue in the east, dark silhouettes of low trees dotted along the horizon. For a moment it seems as if the sun won't return, held below the Earth to withhold its light. Sam breathes a little easier as the light begins to climb higher in the fields.

Sam's nerves are scraped down to raw ends. He'd stayed awake to avoid Lucifer's pitch black chamber, but even without another dream, Sam feels like he's lost too much blood. Barely able to stay on his feet, Sam's limbs take too long to pass sensations on to his brain.

The nightmare hadn't changed; Lucifer surrounded him with his malevolence and greed, whispering sour nothings in Sam's ears that burned down his throat and sickened his stomach until he was lucky enough to wake up. He shudders repulsively every time the dreams come to mind, his entire body rejecting Lucifer's rage.

Worse, Ames hasn't returned to Bells Pond. Everyone's on edge, not just Sam and Eric. The angel has become part of their lives as much as any other resident. His absence is felt as a loss.

Sam chokes down a second cup of coffee aiming to be more awake when Dean shows up. He wastes nearly thirty minutes in the shower hoping the hot water will loosen his knots—physical or otherwise—but it'll take more than heat and steam to fix Sam. He's been worked up for a year, waiting. All he wants is Dean.

There's no way for him to relax; he sits at the kitchen table, feet tapping a nervous beat on the floor. He can hear the clock ticking, his fingers drumming on his mug with the same maddeningly sluggish rhythm. Finally it's a quarter after eight and Sam stands, moving quickly to the front porch and throwing the door open to the morning.

There's no Dean.

Sam shakes himself. It's happened before and he knows not even injury could stop Dean from coming. Nothing short of—

—Sam stops before going down that road. It only winds back to the dark cell in his mind.

He'll be here, Sam hass to be patient. Unfortunately he's always been short on that particular emotion when it comes to Dean. Sam's nervous energy—excessive despite his recent lack of sleep—has him pacing across the porch, bare feet picking up every uneven grain in the wood.

He genuinely starts to panic at ten o'clock. By then his heart is hammering, pulse violent beneath the thin skin of his wrists. His fingers inch to scrape away the skin and put a stop to it for relief.

At eleven, Sam knows Dean's not coming.

The dreams were prophetic even if they came from the wrong side of the battle. Something's not right; the air around Sam is tainted, an imaginary waft of sulfur stinging his nostrils. Sam may be one of the only people in the world who's witnessed the world fundamentally changing before his eyes. It's happening again this very second.

There's nothing to do but wait for Dean or for the End. He waits for the fields in front of him to be torn apart in Lucifer's footsteps.

Sam doesn't know what's coming, but he waits regardless.

March 29th

A storm blows into Bells Pond the next day, the likes of which Sam has never experienced. Sam jerks awake on a thunderclap and hears the wind battering his house. Giant hands slap down on the siding, shaking the house down to its foundations. He can't see outside; the rain obscures every view. The glass panes shudder and rattle in their frames; Sam decides it's best to move away from the windows before they burst.

The violence doesn't let up. If he weren't watching the clock, Sam wouldn't know what time it was. The sun might've gone into hiding, not even bothering to rise, to protect itself from the maelstrom. This is no ordinary storm; Sam's senses sizzle with the unnatural electricity in the air. For all Sam knows, the entire world is braced against this same storm.

He huddles on the couch, unable to sleep even if he wanted to, and prays the world isn't coming apart at the seams. It feels like someone is trying to do just that.

The rain beats hysterically on the roof; there's no way for Sam to shut out the noise. He's sealed in, nowhere to go but deep inside his own consciousness, fighting the hook-and-pull of sleep until he's overwhelmed by exhaustion and falls asleep.

March 31st

"Sam? Sam—"

He wakes up to a familiar voice. Streaks of naked sunlight assault his pupils.

"Sam!"

Sam falls off the couch when he rolls towards Ames, blinking up at the angel's concerned expression.

"What the—you're back!" Sam scrambles on the floor, grabbing the coffee table and hauling himself up. A fine, gray dust lines the shoulders and sleeves of the angel's trenchcoat. "Where have you been?"

Ames leans away from the force of his words. Or, more likely, away from Sam's sour breath. "I thought I was being summoned away."

"For what?" Sam pushes.

"I don't know," Ames says. "I gathered with others to the north, each of us summoned but with no idea why."

The angel's composure irks him. "Was it Michael who called you?"

"No." Ames searches Sam's eyes. "I don't think we were truly called, but we could sense that something had changed. When I came back, Eric told me you needed to see me."

"I've been having dreams," Sam explains. "They started weeks ago and came back every night. Lucifer insinuated that the war was ending and he was winning." He meets the angel's placid stare. "Is that why you felt you had to leave so suddenly?"

"The was is not over," he offers flatly. "But it will end very soon."

Sam's felt the signs, but he must ask. "How can you be sure?"

"Michael and Lucifer are gone. That's why I can't feel anything, Sam."

Every muscle in Sam's body pulls inward, sucking the life from his blood.

"What do you mean _gone_?" he hisses.

The angel leans out of Sam's space. "The archangels are no longer on this plane. There's no way for any of my brothers to reach them." Ames' elegant voice injects very little emotion into the conversation. "Sam, I believe these are all signs of the final battle."

The darkness roars outward, pushing against Sam's skull and swallowing everything in his vision. The next time Sam blinks, he's lying flat on the couch and Ames is kneeling in front of him. Ames' voice seems to come to Sam from a great distance.

"—you been sleeping?"

"No." Sam forces himself upright. "I can't sleep—he's always waiting for me."

"Always?"

"Yeah, he—" Sam's memory snaps to attention. "No—not since the storm came through. I've been afraid to fall asleep, but I can't remember actually going back..."

"If I'm right, Lucifer can't reach your mind anymore."

"What about Dean? If this is the last battle, does that mean he's free?"

"Michael needs his vessel if they're going to banish Lucifer to Hell once more." Ames ducks, trying to find Sam's eyes and get them to focus. "Are you going to be alright if I go?"

"Why are you leaving?" Sam doesn't pay attention to the pathetic need in his voice. "I need to know—"

"I've told you everything I know," Ames says. "It's not much, but there are others I need to see. I'll come back if I get word of anything else." Sam's too busy putting the pieces together in his head. He can't find a thought that's not painful. Ames notices his absent expression, one brow lifting. "Do you want me to stay here with you?"

Sam shakes his head carefully, unwilling to wake the headache he can feel forming behind his eyes. For a moment he thinks Ames will stay anyway, but in the next breath their guardian is gone, no doubt to settle everyone else he'd abandoned for so long.

April 5th

The water's freezing when Sam splashes a handful on his face. The icy temperature brings life back into Sam's eyes.

His reflection tells the story of a week without hope; Sam hasn't bothered to shave or wash his hair in days and his cheeks are pale despite the cold water. He's not sure how much he's aged in the last week, countless years stolen by his lack of sleep and decent meals.

Sam's mirror image doesn't change the longer he stares. No sleek reflection appears to replace the haggard one.

He's been avoiding the diner, but Eric and Riley show up that afternoon doing their best to hide their concern behind lackluster smiles. Riley scowls at the state of his kitchen, picking empty containers off the counter and throwing them in the garbage. With very little to work with, she performs a modern-day miracle and manages to make them all something to eat, chattering away while Sam and Eric trade stares on the couch. Sam wouldn't be able to repeat a single word Riley's said.

"Hey—" Eric's voice is gentle and firm at the same time. Sam blinks and refocuses on his cloudy-blue eyes. "Sam, come on. Talk to us."

"You don't understand."

"You're right," Riley says. Her face is drawn; Sam can't remember seeing her so disquieted before. "We don't understand, but we're still trying to help."

Sam looks to Eric, the man he trusts more than anyone else in Bells Pond. He would understand; the sharp detective's mind would work through the facts, but Eric wouldn't understand what's got Sam so unraveled.

"You don't need to tell me everything," Riley adds, not blind to the stare-down between her friends. "I probably wouldn't be able to understand it all, but even I know you're not like the rest of us."

Sam looks to Eric. He nods. "She doesn't mean that in a bad way, but hell, none of us get visitors. You know what I'm saying? You're special." There's a twist to his lips like he's trying hard not to make it into a joke.

"You're an interesting person, Sam. That doesn't mean everything going on up here is good." She taps his forehead softly. When he doesn't respond, she sighs. "If you can't tell us, that's okay, but we're not gonna let you rot in this house by yourself."

"Not if we're free to stick around and bother you for awhile," Eric chimes in.

"You don't have to stay," Sam says. "I know you're trying to be nice—"

"Who's being nice?" Eric huffs. "I just don't feel like walking all the way home and I'm not up for stealing your truck."

Sam recognizes the offer for what it is and doesn't argue. Eric and Riley divide the house between them, each choosing a side to clean and make livable. Riley throws lines of conversation Sam's way but he can't grab a-hold of them. His friends circle around him like planets in orbit, making sure he's never alone.

When it gets dark, Riley does steal Sam's truck—rather, Eric hands her the keys and tells her to pick him up in the morning.

"Eric, you don't—"

"Seriously, Sam," Eric says, waving to Riley as the old Ford rumbles out of Sam's driveway. "Shut up."

If Eric hadn't forced Sam back inside, he'd have stayed out until the late-winter frost settled over his skin, forming crystals on his eyelashes. But Sam's pushed through the front door, man-handled by someone with half of his bulk.

"What are we doing?" Sam asks, out of breath when Eric drags him through to the bedroom.

"We are going to sleep," Eric says, knocking Sam onto the bed, never giving Sam a chance to object. Handing control over to Eric is exactly what Sam needs and he falls into a comfortable zone of follow-through. Eric doesn't expect him to do anything but obey; there's no expectation for Sam to spill his guts for Eric's benefit.

"Comfy?"

Sam's under the covers, bundled into a warm cocoon with Eric stretched out on top of the comforter next to him.

"Better," Sam admits quietly, drained beyond the point of complete sentences.

"I thought so," Eric says, scooting a little closer. "Now get some sleep and don't worry, I'm not gonna leave."

Sam's fairly sure he starts to cry but he falls asleep in the same breath.

April 12th

"Have you heard anything new?"

Ames shakes his head. Sam was too absorbed in thought to really be startled when the angel popped into the passenger seat of the old Ford a few minutes ago.

The grass waves innocently around the truck, moving like an ocean under the sun. Sam had tried to drive straight through the boundary earlier that same day with no luck. The invisible barrier had been as strong as ever. Giving up, Sam had sat in truck and stared out past the boundary; he could have been zoned out for hours before Ames showed up.

"Heaven is deserted," Ames says softly. "My brothers have scattered, probably just as confused as we are."

"You'd think that an epic showdown would be, you know, epic." Sam shrugs. "There should be signs."

"Not here, there wouldn't be." The angel gazes straight ahead down the road. The dusty lanes look the same on the other side of the boundary, an image reflected back like a one-way mirror. Sam wonders if someone's on the other side, staring back at the strange picture of an angel and a human sitting in a classic truck.

"What's taking so long?" Sam asks. "It's been weeks."

"It's been weeks _here_ ," Ames is quick to clarify. "Where Michael and Lucifer are, the rules of time are flexible and indefinable. There's no telling—"

Sam waves off the rest. A large fly lands on his windshield with a flutter of tiny wings but is quickly chased off by another insect.

"I should have tried harder to get back to Dean."

"Why?" Ames sounds genuinely interested in the notion.

"I'd be out there right now. I could help."

"That's not what your brother wanted."

"He's made plenty of decisions for me," Sam sighs bitterly. "This was never something he should have interfered with."

"The Apocalypse is not the domain of one man, or two," Ames adds when Sam looks over. "We all have a stake in the outcome, but not everyone can be a part of the battle."

Sam stews. Ames becomes distant, his conscious mind traveling far away from Bells Pond and Sam though his body keeps Sam company from the passenger seat. Sam thinks it's actually creepy, sharing space with an empty vessel.

He's gone two weeks with no news of Dean; there have been no signs or indication of anything out of the ordinary beyond the frequent storms and Sam's gut instinct. Ames has come and gone several times for a confab with other angel, but he knows little more than Sam.

Sam is even more desperate to crash through the boundary or force Ames into letting him go. If this is truly the End and Dean and Michael were to fail, Sam might be the world's last hope; he might be able to fight Lucifer off from the inside. A moot point if he can't even escape to find Dean—to see his brother for the last time...

There's a soft flutter in the cab as Ames returns. He studies Sam for a moment, his gaze going deeper than the surface. After a moment, he nods and looks back out to the road.

"Do you want to know what would have happened if you hadn't come here?"

"What?"

Ames glances over, no identifiable emotion behind his eyes. "The future is a strange thing, Sam. There are many different versions, none set in stone until they come to pass."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"When Michael and your brother sent you here, I wanted to see if their choice was worth my trouble. Therefore, I looked." The angel knows he has Sam's undivided attention. "You and Dean would certainly have kept fighting, but your aims were very different. You were fighting together but at the same time, fighting apart. You kept things from each other as if you were fighting two separate wars. One out there—" Ames nods to the boundary, "and one up here." He holds a finger to his head.

Sam tries not to look guilty. He'd almost forgotten how bad his last year with Dean was before Bells Pond drove a physical wedge between them. Distance and time has made the details fuzzy and less tragic.

"Would we have done any better?"

"That's hard to see," Ames says. "You were both so intent on not saying yes but only Dean, with Michael's help, could have replaced the seals. Did you think there was another way?"

"There's always another way," Sam says absently, a mantra from his former life.

"You're not wrong about that." Ames turns towards him. "But I don't know that you would have found it if you'd continued on the way you were. You and Dean were desperate; it made you dangerous and fallible."

"We tried. The angels didn't exactly make it any easier for us."

"There were those who lost their way long ago," Ames replies, lips thinned out and pressed together.

"Is Michael going to keep his promise?" What a promise means to the Winchesters may not be the same as what it means to others. Michael is not a Winchester. "What if he keeps using Dean for other battles, or he just lets Dean die?"

"We don't make promises, Sam."

"But—"

"We craft bargains," Ames says. "If Dean holds up his end, and since we've come to the last battle, I believe he has, Michael will do the same. It's simple. A promise can fall apart, but a bargain is created with clear expectations."

Sam frowns. "Like a contract."

"In a way."

Hearing it now, Sam's not surprised.

"So what's going to happen?" Sam asks. "If we're at the final battle, what comes next?"

"If Michael loses, I don't think you need me to tell you."

Sam hesitates. "And if we win?"

After the conversation they've just had, the smile on the angel's face is completely out of place in the old truck.

"If we win, that's when the true endeavors begin."

He pops out of the truck a moment later, leaving Sam to work through his thoughts, wondering what the future could possibly hold that would make Ames smile.

April 19th

Sam doesn't care how many times Ames repeats it; Dean must be dead.

 

 

April 24th

Nothing changes. There are no cracks in the sky above Bells Pond and Sam hasn't found a way to leave.

Sometimes he's alone, trapped by four walls and grief that manifests in physical pain. Other days, Eric and Riley won't leave him to himself; they drag him out to the diner to see the rest of his friends.

Sam acts brilliantly for their benefit; he puts on a smile as easily as he puts on his shirt. He's fine, just going through a rough patch. That's what he tells Mitch and Annabel when they ask. Anthony doesn't question him, or even welcome him back, but he watches Sam with wide, sad eyes. They're brothers in tragedy now.

Sam usually toughs it out for a hour, two at most, before he's back in his truck and trying not to hyperventilate.

>  _It'll get better, Sammy. I promise._

  
Dean's voice might make things worse but Sam doesn't muster the effort to care. The gruff tone had returned a few days ago. Sam had looked for Dean on his porch when he first heard it, but the words were too soft, held no weight. Like a wave in his head, Dean's voice pushes forward to fill the empty hours as it had done so many years ago.

If it's all Sam has left of his brother, Sam's got to hang onto every word.

>  _Sam feels a familiar purr; its vibrations sink beneath his skin—the perfect rumble of a classic V8 engine. The long stretch of highway is deserted from one horizon to the other, asphalt cracked beneath Sam's feet. Dream or no, it's one of the most beautiful places he's ever seen. Far in the distance, red mountains climb out of the Earth to clash with the blue of the sky. Sam takes an endless breath and feels free for the first time in a decade._
> 
>  _He can't see a car but the entire landscape shifts with the roar of acceleration._
> 
>  _The growl is in his heart, an intrinsic part of Sam's body since the day he was born. He'd know the sound of the Impala anywhere._
> 
>  _He swears it's there, just out of sight. Any second it will burst through the shimmering mirage of light and heat that wafts up from the pavement._
> 
>  _Sam waits._
> 
>  _The sun his high in the sky but he can't feel it burn on the back of his neck._
> 
>  _And he waits._
> 
>  _The shimmer starts to darken—_

  


April 30th

—Sam fights through the disorientation, staring up at the light fixture on the ceiling from an acute angle. He twists his neck, wincing at the discomfort of waking up in such a contorted position, and his bedroom rights itself.

The full light of late-morning blasts through Sam's haphazardly-pulled shades. It's a moment before Sam places the sound that woke him, familiar and foreign at the same time. Lying there, he listens for the creaking thud again—maybe a branch had been blown into his driveway, the wind buffeting the wood up against his truck.

The sound could be a remnant from his dream. There had been a road—

"Hey, Sam—"

The shout shocks Sam so badly he rolls off the bed, the pain of impact enough to tell him that he's no longer confined to a dream. He scrambles up off the floor and out into the living room, his feet send dust bunnies fleeing towards the corners. With his front windows open to let in the early morning breeze, the light wind lifts his curtains.

Like a gleaming black chariot, the Impala is sitting in front of his house. Sam imagines he can hear the tick and sizzle of the cooling engine block.

His eyes track to the front hallway where Dean is propped against Sam's wide-open door.

"Did I wake you up?" He's smiling in the face of Sam's stupor. "I'm a little late, but c'mon."

This time Sam trips into Dean's arms on purpose, too relieved to question anything. He wraps himself over Dean, probably crushing him but not caring because he's real.

"A little—you son of a bitch, it's been—"

He ducks and finds Dean's mouth opening for him. The kiss is enough to tell him that Dean is really standing in his house, too nuanced to be imaginary. Relief—and no small measure of disbelief—trump every other emotion crowding forward trying to be recognized.

"How the hell..." Sam peeks over Dean's shoulder, out at the gleaming car. "You drove here?"

Hope tries to crawl out into the light of day.

"Sam." Dean pulls him close, lips touching when he speaks. "It's done."

He draws back so Dean's eyes are in his view. "Done. As in—"

"As in, this party's over and we're _free_ , done." Dean takes a deep breath.

"You were supposed to be here," Sam mutters. "I waited—do you know how long it's been? A month, Dean—"

"What d'you want me to say, Sam?" Dean doesn't let Sam back away and keeps his voice quiet. "I didn't know how long I was stuck with Michael—it was different for me, I thought I'd make it here sooner. I tried...tell me, Sam. Tell me what you want to hear and I'll say it."

"I thought you were dead," Sam manages to gasp out. Dean's concession is harder to hear than an argument but he wants to avoid a blow-out that'll most likely leave them in irreparable shards of themselves. Sam doesn't blame him; things have changed.

"If Michael had let me die, there would have been hell to pay."

Sam laughs in spite of his emotions, easing some of the strain but by no means balancing the scales.

"So this is it?" Sam never thought he'd be able to say it. "The deal with Michael is done?"

"And Lucifer's back in his box for another few thousand years. How does that sound?"

It sounds like something Sam ought to kiss him for and he does. He drags Dean through the entryway, towards the living room and the nearest soft surface. The front door remains open, creaking on its brass hinges in the breeze, letting the sounds of a new kind of day blow into Sam's house.

Sam doesn't want to talk; he wants to kiss Dean to make up for every day they've been apart. At this rate, neither of them are coming up for air anytime soon.

Sleep doesn't come for Sam right away but Dean's out like a light as soon as his head touches the pillow, his body embracing the chance to rest. Dean stays well-under, giving Sam hours to allay his fears.

He can't think through everything that's happened since Dean failed to appear over a month ago; it's more beneficial in the moment to block off the entire chunk of time and focus on Dean, cataloging the damage he can see.

The skin around Dean's eyes is paper-thin; Sam can see the individual blood vessels in an array. No wonder Dean is caught in the sleep of the dead. He's thinner than what Sam remembers from a year ago, and he'd been underweight then. Not to the point of malnutrition, but every battle had clearly taken it's toll.

No matter what Sam finds on the outside, he knows it's nothing compared to the damages hidden away inside Dean's mind. With six years of relative peace and distance away from his brother's physical and emotional battles, Sam has never been more ready to patch him up in every possible capacity. Perhaps this was his journey all along.

Sam lies there for hours to ensure that Dean doesn't disappear. His hand finds the heartbeat in Dean's chest and settles there, pulse traveling up Sam's arm and into his body, and finally falls asleep with that slowed, steady beat in his ears.

May 3rd

"I still can't believe it," Eric mutters for the fifth time. Sam rolls his eyes and Eric scowls. "I saw that."

"Whatever," Sam laughs. "It's true no matter how many times you accuse me of lying."

Ames snags Eric's shoulder the next time he paces by and pulls him into the booth. Sam and Dean had emerged after a poorly-timed visit from the angel, the three of them making their way to the diner to meet with Eric, Riley and Gus. The unofficial town council of Bells Pond—their reactions to Dean's news had been vastly different.

Gus had drawn into himself, his eyes losing their focus as Riley gasped and fired off questions. Eric had stood up and paced the diner from end to end, scuffling his shoes across the linoleum.

"We're free, I guess," Sam says. "We don't have to stay here."

"It's pretty safe to go back to wherever you came from," Dean picks up. "It won't be the same, a lot of damage's been done since you left, but there's no real danger."

"What are you gonna do?" Eric looks to Sam when he asks, his blue eyes holding much more than a single question.

"I was never planning to stay." Sam plays idly with Dean's hand under the table. "I've been trying to get out since the day I got here."

Riley opens her mouth but closes it without a word. Her eyes find a pattern on the tabletop and follow it across to Sam's side.

"Do what you've gotta do, Sam," Eric says. "None of us are expecting you to stay."

"What about you?"

Eric looks at each of them in turn. Riley's on the verge of quiet tears. "I've left my life behind long enough," he says. "I think I'll head back to Sacramento and see if there's anything for me to do. The world still needs cops, right?"

"Take my truck," Sam says, drawing Eric's eyes. "I want you to have it."

"What d'you say, Ames?" Eric asks. "Are you up for a road-trip?"

"I've never been to California," the angel responds. "I'd like to see it."

Sam is relieved the detective won't be alone. After Bells Pond, he's not sure what further, self-imposed loneliness would do to any of them. Eric and Ames make a good team though Sam has no idea what the future could possibly hold.

Gus clears his throat, stirring milky swirls in his coffee mug. "So long as I ain't left on my own, this place is good enough for me."

"You will not be abandoned," Ames says, a peaceful smile gracing his features.

Gus nods decisively. "Then I suppose I'll be staying."

"You won't be alone," Riley adds, plenty of conviction in her voice.

"Riley—" Sam and Eric address her at the same time. "Are you sure?" Sam finishes them both.

"Yeah, I've got Mitch and my house," she laughs. "I've never had a house before, just cramped apartments. Besides, I couldn't handle letting anyone else take over the diner. I know Gus and I probably won't be the only ones staying, and the diner needs to keep running. For everyone."

They reach an agreement to spread the news around Bells Pond slowly, ambassadors of their new freedom. Sam leaves the diner with a heavy heart; though none of them are in a hurry to put Bells Pond in their rear-view mirrors, their time as _one_ is drawing to a close.

Dean is out waiting by the Impala, Gus and Eric both taking a healthy interest in the Winchester's oldest home.

Where Sam's family goes, he has no choice but to follow. It no longer feels like a curse.

Dean's cock drops from Sam's lips and he wipes the saliva off of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Why'd you stop?" Dean gasps, palm reaching down to keep the sensations rolling on. Sam smacks his hand away easily.

"I don't want you to come yet."

Dean whines and tries to find friction somewhere on Sam's body. "I'll be sure to return the favor later."

To prevent Dean from moving on with the show, Sam wrestles him over onto his stomach and restrains his hips.

"If you can still move by then," Sam teases, "you're welcome to try."

The sight of Dean's broadly-muscled back leads Sam one step away from obsession; his tone has been divinely sculpted and defined. Sam rears above him, the fine hairs on their legs rubbing and scratching together. His cock falls between the curves of Dean's up-turned ass, shadowed skin so unbelievably tempting. Dean twists his head to the side on the comforter to see what Sam's up—and very, very hard—to. Sam lets himself fall forward to connect with Dean's lips.

Dean moans, the sound caught between their mouths.

"Can you taste yourself?" Sam whispers. The last several nights, he's discovered just how significantly words, used in the right situations, can spur their pleasure. In the years before, words were a waste of time Sam couldn't afford, but he's cashing in now, dripping every dirty innuendo from his lips just to hear all the different ways he can get Dean to moan.

There's no limit to the things they can do with a previously unimaginable stretch of time in their hands. Sam wants it all; he wants it now.

He drops down so that his stomach rides along the curvature of Dean's spine. Sam can feel every inch of his brother, dragging his hands over Dean's arms, down to his bony knuckles, prying them loose and weaving their fingers together.

So much sweet skin within reach. Close-quarters for his tongue to slip around Dean's ear, exchanging little shivers of sound. Sam's cheek rubs against Dean's damp hair, sweat running down his face to slip into the corners of his mouth.

There's one thing separating him, a last boundary Sam intends to break through. He's felt that heat before, used his fingers to get Dean off more explosively and loving the tight clench around him. Sam's dick is fully on-board, rutting on Dean's ass and rubbing their skin raw.

They've never come this far but now that Sam's standing on the edge, he wants to throw himself off into the abyss. He was never ready, unwilling to share so much of himself if Dean was just going to up and disappear with the sun. Sam knows that's not going to happen.

"Sam—"

"I want every piece of you," Sam lets his breath go over the back of Dean's neck. "I know it's already mine, but I wanna _feel_ it."

Ten fingers spread wide on Dean's shoulder blades, sharp juts of bone like clipped wings. The tension bleeds out of Dean's muscles in silent submission.

Neither of them are content to waste time with prep. As soon as Sam's fingers are slicked up with Dean's bottle of lube, he presses two inside. Dean elbows himself back onto Sam's hand, drawing him into a deeper penetration with no warning.

"Take it easy," Sam coaxes, knocking his knee against Dean's leg to steady him. But he's seen what Dean needs and adds another finger to the mix. "I want you so ready and open—"

"Get on with it," Dean hisses impatiently. One hard push from Sam after that and anything else Dean has to say is choked back with a gasp.

Sam grins while Dean's not looking. His wrist aches from the forceful preparation but Dean's patience cuts him short, his body language taut and demanding more than just Sam's fingers.

"You don't know—" Sam tries to say before his mind is consumed by Dean's body all around him.

Words leave him after that, forced away because Dean—Dean is all Sam wants to think about. The initial burn of penetration is slow to flare but Sam's arms tremble on either side of Dean's shoulders. They're sandwiched together on the bed, Dean flat on his stomach and Sam pushing in from behind, foregoing power for a position that brings their skin into close-contact. Practically laying on Dean's back, Sam can feel how every thrust affects him—which moves make his body sing and which hit off-target.

"You have to move faster." Dean's spine is rigidly tense. "I can't—"

Sam's hips snap forward whip-fast, inching them towards the headboard one thrust at a time. The intensity whips Sam into a vortex. Combined with rock-solid devotion beneath all of the sex, Sam begins to let go of the fear and despair that have driven him for so long.

When Sam pulls back too far, his cock slips out; Dean gets his legs underneath him and moves away.

"What are you—"

"Like this, Sammy," Dean says, sliding onto his back and pushing his ass against Sam's thighs. The new angle is like starting over, a fresh chance to hit Dean's prostate. Seeing Dean's face as he's moving is a distraction, rhythm stuttering as he watches Dean's eyes squeeze and release, his mouth forming sounds that don't quite make it past his lips.

They're mirror-images in bone and sinew, chests rising towards one another, eyes always coming back to center. Dean's legs clamp around Sam's hips to ensure he can't slip out again; his arms stretch up in vain to find something to hang onto, ending up braced on the headboard. He wonders if Dean can feel the change between them, the inevitability that their lives, already bizarre, are straying into uncharted territory. At least they're straying together.

Some need compels Sam to lay his hands on Dean's chest, plucking his nipples to spike up the pleasure. The bare skin over Dean's sternum gives his palms pause; something's missing next to the swirls of ink in Dean's anti-possession tattoo. _The amulet_. Safe in Sam's keeping, he'd never felt quite right putting it on like he had when Dean was in Hell. In Bells Pond, he'd only been keeping it until Dean came back.

He can't stop fucking Dean now, but Sam will see to the amulet later. It doesn't belong in the drawer next to his gun; it belongs on Dean.

Sam catches the movement as Dean's hand slips down to palm his cock, near-to-bursting and red in his fingers as Dean gets a quick stroke-and-twist going. There's no way Sam can spare the energy to help him jerk off so he watches, ramping up his own thrusts to match Dean's pulls.

He's felt others come while he's fucking them, but it's a full-body experience with Dean. The vise around Sam's waist tightens and Dean's abs pull taut just before he shouts and releases. Sam keeps pushing through his orgasm, a few extra knocks on his prostate forcing more come out onto his fingers. Sam'd body wants to tip then and there, but he keeping fucking up into Dean whose limbs are slowly loosening their hold.

And then Dean's eyes find his, clear and sated, and he smiles.

One look, and Sam's gone.

"What do you really want to do?"

Sam kicks the covers down past his knees to let the sweat evaporate.

Barely two hours after Sam fucked Dean for the first time, Dean had made good on his word to return the favor—a Winchester never breaks a promise, he thinks heatedly—and had left Sam a wrung-out, sweating mess on the sheets. The addition of Dean's body temperature beside him now doesn't help to cool things off.

"I definitely want to take a shower," Sam says.

"I was thinking more along the lines of the bigger picture."

"Since when are you this talkative after sex?" Sam complains as he tries to settle comfortably away from the dull aches.

"Since now," Dean mutters. "Answer the question."

"I want to do this." Sam leans out and lays a kiss right on Dean's lips. "Very often, and for as long as possible."

"I'm not as young as I used to be." Dean jokes, moving with Sam when he rolls back and coming up onto his elbow over Sam's shoulder.

"Neither am I. It doesn't matter," Sam says honestly. "There's always going to be something for us to hunt, isn't there?"

"The Apocalypse didn't exactly put us out of a job." Dean lies back on the pillow next to Sam, neither one bothering to count the hours left until the sun comes up. "There's always gonna be shit to hunt, but if you want to stay here, we can do that."

"I'll pass." For a small town, Bells Pond holds so much for Sam, the boundaries of the two can barely contain it. Sam needs to move on. "But I want to make sure everyone's going to be alright. I don't know what's going to happen to them after this. Riley and Eric are gonna be fine, but the rest—"

"Hey," Dean cuts in. "We can stick around for a bit, okay?"

Sam nods. He can't wait to get back on the road with Dean, but checking up on his friends isn't just an excuse; Sam's not looking forward to any of those goodbyes.

"And we'll swing through now and then," Dean says after a moment. "If Riley's still here, she'd be pissed if we drove through without stopping."

Sam sighs. They'll drive away, through the boundary and into a world Sam needs to reacquaint himself with, but Sam will never leave Bells Pond behind.

"Whatever we do," Dean whispers, half-asleep already, "this is the start of it. Right here."

Sam brings them together.

"Yeah, it is."

In mid-June, in an empty field, the grasshoppers protest the humidity with long, rasping stridulations. Clouds are fighting for space in the sky; a low ridge blows in beneath its competition to win the day. The brown prairie birds are nowhere to be found, unwilling to fly in the heavy air.

The Impala streaks down the dusty road in a flash of black, passing easily through the boundary as if it were never there in the first place and kicking up dirt with her back tires for an encore. Wearing jeans and t-shirts, Sam and Dean ride with the windows open to catch the wind in their faces.

It's an hour before the landscape changes to something other than cornfields and prairie grass. Dean steers the Impala onto the shoulder and stops so Sam can catch his breath.

Leaning into the passenger seat, Dean tells Sam that they can always turn back; he asks if Sam wants to keep going.

Sam turns, conscious of the pressure of Dean's hand on his knee and an unfamiliar world ahead of him, and gives Dean his answer.

 

 **fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to extend my deepest apologies to the residents of Nebraska. I'm sure y'all are lovely people. To make this fic, I procured a very large glass and added the following ingredients: one part Supernatural, one part Castaway, one part Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, two parts refined insanity, and enough tequila to give it some bite. Shake and pour over psychotically, irrationally, and erotically co-dependent brothers. Serve with ice.
> 
>   
> **thanks.**   
> 
> 
> This story would not have been possible without joans23. Her help, support, rationality, and friendship kept me going when I thought time was against me. We have a _very_ special [and dysfunctional] relationship with Big Bangs. I am totally on board with writing RPS next year, m'dear. ♥
> 
> Of course, to alteredloc who rocked as an artist, producing a portfolio's worth of art for my little story and bringing so much enthusiasm to the process even though she had mono! I had so much fun acting as your art beta throughout this whole month, and I can honestly say some of your pieces inspired bits of this story. The snow-globe, finding the perfect picture of Sam, sneaking the Wanderer into your collages, and your DINER SIGN -- I could not be more thrilled with all the work you put into this, I'm freakin' giddy that we prevailed!
> 
> To my betas who stepped in nearly at the last minute and never shirked away. andreth47, who let nothing get through her net and remained calm even after I told her that yes, the story _was_ due in two days. And auroraprimavera who helped so much with her enthusiasm up to the eleventh hour. Both caught some of the craziest foibles that would have made this story sound ridiculous if they hadn't been seen. Thank you both SO much.
> 
> To the Big Bang mods who made this challenge possible, thanks for all your hard work!
> 
>   
> **no thanks.**   
> 
> 
> To the World Cup, which dragged me away from this story and woke me up _really_ early in the morning. In the future, I will remember to factor in International sporting events before asking for my posting date. VIVA NETHERLANDS! VIVA GERMANY!


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